


By Providence, Impoverished

by Poose



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Cats, F/M, First Love, Gen, Gender Roles, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Misandry, Older Man/Younger Man, POV Third Person Omniscient, Politics, Slow Burn, Women In Power, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 67
Words: 170,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6134563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What to expect: A Regency-flavoured, Washington/Hamilton slow burn AU born out of an extended thought experiment about kinship, property, matriarchy, and reproduction. There will be abuse of semicolons, tortured metaphors, snark, romance, a giant white horse, and a hurried wedding, eventually.  </p><p>CAVEAT EMPTOR: Demands willful suspension of disbelief. The world-building here is fairly extensive, the misandry very real, and the burn <i>exceedingly</i> slow. If that doesn't sound appealing, this fic probably isn't for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Could we not conceive of a symmetrical structure, equally simple, where the sexes would be reversed? This is certainly a theoretical possibility. But it is immediately eliminated on empirical grounds. In human society,_ _it is the men who exchange the women, and not vice versa._

-Claude Levi-Strauss

 

_A critical knowledge of the evolution of the idea of property would embody, in some respects, the most remarkable portion of the mental history of mankind._

-Henry Lewis Morgan

 

_The problem of women was never just about women. It might follow that if everything is constructed, then nothing is inevitable, since the relationship between social convention and the intrinsic nature of things is exposed as arbitrary. But anthropology has more to say than this._

-Marilyn Strathern

 

 

 

 

 

___________________________________

 

  

 

From what was generally regarded as common knowledge in the polite circles of Monmouth society, one could deduce that as a young woman, Rachel Faucette’s chief deficit had consisted of being too trusting rather than too little, which was why (against the express wishes of her mother and her mother’s mother) she had thrown up the ambitions to which, by virtue of her modest station, she was expected to aspire, and cast her lot with a Scotsman; — a one Mr. James Hamilton, lately of Ayrshire, a place whose customs are so distant from our own that they might well have originated on the moon. To marry for love was as peculiar in that generation as it is in this one, and let the sad tale which follows serve as a caution, gentle reader, of the many dangers inherent in its pursuit.

Be that as it may, this Mr. Hamilton was still rumored to be a handsome fellow, although no woman in the village could have described the contours of his face (given that he had never been seen west of London). It was said his eyes were most striking, his calves most comely, and that women were drawn to him as moths to a flame. Yet he might well have found better fortune had he been possessed of a more sober countenance and rather less inclination for dice. And so it came to pass that these two, whose marriage began with love but ended very much without it, fled an endless series of debtors and creditors all the way to the Caribbean, and it was there that Rachel gave birth to a son, whom she named in honour of a mother with whom she never had the chance to reconcile.

Upon finding that her erstwhile husband had spirited himself away yet again — although this time he had managed not only to avoid apprising her of his intention to do so, but also failed take her and the child with him — Rachel Faucette applied herself to salvaging what she could of her new family’s meager fortune. Having quit her education to elope with Hamilton, and being ill-disposed to understand accountancy, this was hardly the disaster it could have been; if only by virtue of the boy child (to whom the word _prodigy_ might be applied liberally and without compunction) did they manage to survive in the West Indies, where life was lived very differently than in the West Country, and by whose backwards citizens Rachel herself was considered deficient by virtue of her sex!

By the time this state of affairs grew tiresome, as it was bound to do, the boy child had grown into a slightly taller though still slight version of himself, and was as quick with figures as his mother had been slow, with a great vivacity for learning that could not be satisfied by the poor schools of the colonies, with their religious drivel and perpetual shortage of qualified teachers. A flurry of letters was exchanged between islands, Indies and Britain, and after a length of time it was at last decided that Rachel and her son, Alexander, by now aged eleven, would be permitted to live off the generosity of her father’s people. This was just as well, for it would be a poor world indeed in which the culpability of the mother might forever impede the prospects of her child, whether boy or girl.

They would redress by taking up residence with the Schuyler family at their estate, situated on the east banks of the River Wye. Lady Catherine’s elder husband, a good-tempered and slightly stout man by the name of Philip, shared a female progenitor with Rachel, one generation back, and, being of a romantic nature himself, was predisposed to forgive her transgressions in the pursuit of that evasive object, love. He himself had made a most fortunate match in Lady Catherine, and had given her not one, not even two, but _three_ girl children. This surfeit of blessings spilt over into a general family propensity for generosity with all and sundry, no matter how unfortunate their circumstance.

Rachel did not hold out hope to reconcile with her mother and her mother’s mother, but ventured that in time they might allow her back into the household, though of course Alexander would not be able to inherit. Still, she thought he would make a better match there than in St. Croix, and she would be afforded the right to accompany him to his new household. He was, for the most part, a capable boy with a talent for writing, and had composed several lyrical poems on the topic of his absent father, for whom he still felt a strong affection, even though he would not recognize the man if he were to pass by him in an empty lane, so long had he been absent from his vision.

And so it came to pass that arrangements were made and two passages booked on a summer ship bound for Cardiff. Rachel, however, boarded the vessel in a sickly state, and departed it much, much worse from the journey, wretched as it was. The passage was poor even before a hurricane blew up off the coast of Bermuda. They spent a week driven against a gale force wind; bouts of fever, scarlet and yellow, raged through the ranks of those on board; and to make matters worse, most of their potable water was washed overboard with the storm. After two months at sea, their storm-weary ship docked and both mother and child were taken to hospital at once. Given the superiority of our medicines and the skill of the doctors who administer them, it remains to be said that neither should have died. But Rachel had grown weak after so many years of breathing the fetid air of tropical St. Croix, and was beyond the reach of our care, and thus left poor Alexander an orphan at the vulnerable age of twelve, at a time when a boy needed his mother most; — to school him in matters of business and diplomacy, certainly, but most crucially to advocate for his position in high society, so that he might make an advantageous match to a young woman of some fortune or, if not that, then married to a settled and respectable couple, and not be forced, by dint of being unwanted, to go into the army, or even worse! — into trade.

Alexander was brought into the Schuyler household, and forfeit his name for that of the materfamilias, as, of course, is our custom; yet the poor boy never for a moment ceased his longing for the absent father called Hamilton. This childish desire did languish over the course of some years, and he lived quite contentedly along with his three sister-cousins (Angelica, Eliza, and the youngest, Margarita, known hereafter as Peggy) in a good sized house which would soon be in need of a second floor. Owing to the largesse of Lady Catherine, Alexander was given an education suitable to his sex, at which he undoubtedly excelled, and was later joined in this endeavour by a second ward, a sleek and handsome fellow by the name of Aaron Burr, whose mother had been one of the fiercest priests in all the land, and whose untimely passing was strongly felt.

Alexander, though possessed of the shapely legs of his father and sharing the brightness of his eyes — had a certain set of his countenance that was altogether unwholesome in its readiness to quarrel. Such an unfortunate tendency could have been made a virtue of, and might have done, in the hands of the right lady. But in spite of his sentimental education, which was comprised of the strictest regimen of dance, poetry, music, cookery, and the arranging of flowers, garnished with a smattering of French and Italian, enough for flattery and pleasantries, Alexander nonetheless possessed a mind far too quick for any woman's liking. Thus it was that each passing season of matchmaking saw his prospects much reduced as his age climbed, and the likelihood of finding a suitable wife (or more likely, a position as a second husband) diminished three-and-tenfold. 

And it is here, dear reader, that we come to meet him as he nears the age of three-and-twenty, his last marriageable season in clear view as a road on the horizon, and thus we may begin to unfold a most unusual tale, which may be instructive and enlightening in its own way, about how love may spring up in the strangest of places. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Household — Two Wards of South End — Alexander’s Anguish — An Unexpected Arrival_

As one might expect, given that it belonged to a well-positioned but not particularly wealthy family, the Schulyer property did not end at the boundary of the front lawn: the household, commonly called _South End,_ was but part of the larger estate, which was managed in entirely the usual way. It included, amongst its other parts, a small dairy concern. This was run by a one Mrs. Maria Reynolds and her husband, James. A remarkable pair, these two, who were able to turn little into much, and extracted such a quantity of milk from their herd of Freisians meant that this income — coupled with the annual collection of monies owed by the tenants and the small benefit afforded to Lady Catherine for her service to Parliament these last fourteen years — was enough to sustain the household, and even turned a handy profit: — the newfangled appetite for Welsh cheddar may account for some of their success. However, in the interest of time, we must limit ourselves to the story of Alexander, born Faucette, now Schuyler, and the usual manner in which he passed his days.

Lady Catherine, owing to her political career, was often absent for weeks or sometimes months at a stretch. And though Alexander, if questioned directly, would have insisted on his love for her, it was not that as a boy is accustomed to feel for his mother, for it was widely known was not an overkind woman. But remember that it is not our custom to travel great distance for work or pleasure, and that the women who serve their country in this manner are to be spared the usual scorn which attaches to such practices. Whatever the cause, Lady Catherine’s temper was better suited for her position in politics than in either the hardship of travel or the pallor of domesticity. Such it was that the household was altogether more relaxed during her absences, as we will see presently.

Alexander shared a bedchamber with his fellow ward, Aaron Burr, for whom he also felt affection of a begrudging sort. On the whole, no fault could be found with this son of a priest: which was, in and of itself, a good enough reason for disliking him. Young men are widely known to have mercurial natures, and never more so than when they are set, directly or indirectly, in competition with one another. A friendship might sour, or never blossom in the first place, if the males in question were of an age. And thus it was with the two wards of South End.

The first, and chief difficulty had to do with space. Already the household was crammed into too few rooms for their living quarters. Peggy and Eliza shared, so that Angelica might have an office of her own. Lady Catherine’s chambers, of the same size as the main drawing room, were located on the northeastern corner of the house, with her office adjoining. Across a small hallway were situated the rooms for her husbands. Of these, Philip inhabited the one on the southeast corner, with its sunny prospect granted by two leaden windows, and the other chamber, where the second husband would eventually reside, was where Aaron and Alexander shared a room and a goose-feather bed.

Had these boys grown up together, learned to embroider and preserve fruit and play the pianoforte in company from a young age, then the marked tension which arises from the protracted ordeal of matchmaking would still have occurred, albeit perhaps with less intensity. It was Alexander’s misfortune that Aaron found himself orphaned at a most inconvenient time in both their lives, when the body must undergo inevitable but unsavoury changes. To Alexander’s even greater chagrin, these changes affected Aaron not one iota. His skin remained as smooth as a newly frosted cake or the glassy stillness of the River Wye in winter; his voice was particularly melodious when he sang, whether in church or for entertainment, and did not crack; and he seemed in possession of a remarkable amount of self-control in the aforementioned matters of the body. This was, in short, the second problem betwixt the two. Alexander longed for a freedom, and a privacy which Aaron could simply not grant, and on occasion seemed to withhold out of quiet spite.

It will serve to remind the reader, of course, that our age is a more enlightened one than those of past generations. A woman might enjoy some small comforts of domestic life, even taking sabbatical from her place of work to stay home when her children were small. In much the same way, it behooves us to remember that men have ambitions as well, and that despite the weakness of their bodies, and their accepted insatiable appetite for its pleasures, we find no sin inherent in man’s material being. Certain strains of priests, such as the Burr women had been, argued that as progenitors of original sin, sons of Adam were to be forever burdened with the defense of the motherland, should the leaders see fit to declare war on our most despised and eternal enemy: the French. For this their lives might well be forfeit, and they would be grieved as fallen sons. Thus the unmarriageable, unmanageable, or undesired amongst us is blessed with the freedom to atone, whether by blood or honour, for their culpability in condemning womankind to eternal damnation.

So it was that when Lady Catherine was absent the household relaxed, and breathed a collective sigh of contentment. Standards were fastidiously maintained as the man-of -all-work — who was given the Christian name of Hercules but whom all and sundry referred to simply as _Mulligan_ and had been very cheaply got as he was rumoured to be a slattern (though the rumours had nevertheless never been proved true) — kept a scrupulously clean house. Corners were scrubbed by him, meals prepared, and he provided lessons for the boys in sewing, cookery, and other domestic arts. It was during such a lesson in the front parlour that Mulligan thought to praise the fine manner in which Aaron Burr had turned a sleeve, and said:

'This is very fine work indeed,” Mulligan offered with the sincerest of praise. 'Now, Alexander, look, here is an example of craftsmanship! You would do well to spend as much time on your stitches as does our Mr. Burr.'

Alexander, who could not set a sleeve to save his life, glared up from his hemming and managed to prick his thumb in the process. 'Our Aaron Burr,' he said, 'perfect in all things,' though the other two men could well hear him. He sucked on the sore bit of his finger and recited the Greek alphabet silently in his head as Mulligan continued with his flattery. 'Such artistry,' he effused, 'such refinement.'

Burr, of course, was modest to a fault and only paused for a moment in his work. 'The art is through no advantage of my own, for all arts come from God and, as my mother’s mother’s mother was wont to say, are to be respected as divine inventions.'

Mulligan clapped his hands together and said, 'And modest to boot! Alexander —' 

But Alexander had already retreated into his own head and was now conjugating, to the best of his untutored ability, the strong aorist verbs in the subjunctive mode.

The girls were most fortunate to be schooled by a Ms. Frances Godwin in the subjects of Greek, Latin, political economy, law, and rhetoric. They adhered to the strictest regimen of studies even in Lady Catherine’s absence, though they might dispense with the practice of dressing for dinner. Philip preferred this more relaxed style, as it had been some years since he had fit into the finery of his newlywed years without the aid of a corset, and lately, a waist cincher atop that as well. If we might say a word in his defense, the cheddar produced by the Reynolds wife and husband was of most excellent quality, though they were not to blame for the abundance of sweet sherry and all manner of cakes which also graced the table, as opposed to the more wholesome vegetable fare that Lady Catherine and Angelica preferred.

During these months of relative ease, Alexander could be found after dinner most nights in Eliza and Peggy’s chambers, and there, under the pretext of gossip (though, to be fair, he did adore nothing so much as gossip), he might steal a moment or two with their grammars and copy practice passages into his own workbooks, which were secreted away beneath his side of the mattress; this was yet another reason he wished for Aaron to be absent from the room. As of late, Peggy had often stolen away for her own, private adventures, and it was on the matter of these that Alexander and Eliza now speculated:

'I promise you, Alexander,' Eliza said from her position on the edge of the bed, the boar bristle brush idle in her lap, '— she must be in Angelica’s room, if you are so very concerned as to her whereabouts.' 

Alexander turned away from the glass to look at his sister-cousin. 'And I promise _you,_ Eliza, that I have seen her romping about, out of doors, at all hours of the night. If I didn’t know better, well, I’d say she had a lover skulking about the place.'

Eliza paused to consider this insane possibility. 'No,' she said at last, 'it simply cannot be. Peggy? Why the house is aswarm with boys and men, all hours of the day. She shows no interest in a single one of them.'

'Not even John Laurens?' Alexander asked, knowing full well that such an insinuation would cause her to redden to the tips of her ears. 'Because I have heard it said that John Laurens—'

'—Alexander,' she flushed crimson, as our hero knew she would, 'Pray, do not speak to me of John Laurens!'

'Very well,' he conceded, 'shall I tell you instead what that old goat Franklin said about the passage I composed for our assignment last Tuesday, where we were to employ metaphor in the service of _strong and pleasant description_?'

Funnily enough, Eliza had heard, if not this exact story, then one of its many variants, for the war between the tutor of letters Benjamin Franklin, a gentleman in name only, and the headstrong desires of Alexander, who wished only to outshine each of his compatriots, was a common refrain in these nighttime interludes and _rendez-vous._ But Eliza was a fine girl, good of spirit, and for whom a story dulled only slightly through repetition, and Alexander always brought such life to the telling, and so, as she made her way over to the vanity, where strips of curling rag awaited their interweaving with Alexander’s dampened hair, she said, 'Of course, Alexander, I can think of little else I would enjoy more.'

However, barely had she begun to braid the first plait when a great commotion arose from the hallway: a knock on the door which would have frightened the horses even at a reasonable hour, all the more frightening for having come when the household was abed. Alexander and Eliza exchanged a look, and without even bothering to cover his bare shoulders, he raced after her into the front foyer, where Philip and Aaron were already assembled to meet the pale-faced man who stood there, his breath all a-wheeze, as if he'd outrun the wolves all the way from Rome itself.

'Mr. Schuyler,' panted the envoy, for that was what he happened to be, 'I am sent abreast of Lady Catherine to tell you that she will arrive before dawn tomorrow, and that the household must be prepared to receive the Church family.'

At this, Philip visibly blanched. A good thing, too, as his back was turned away and he did not notice Peggy slip in the door behind the emissary, her skirts in immodest disarray. He swooned for a moment, but Aaron was there at his elbow, as always, to right him.

'Gracious me,' he said, after he had regained his feet. 'Sleep shall not be granted us this night.' He pressed a coin into the man's hand and directed him to the kitchen, where Mulligan would provide refreshment for his troubles. 'We must set the house in order!' he exclaimed, 'Angelica is arriving today!'


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Loving Husband — Lady Catherine's Return — Angelica and John Church — A Tender Moment_

As it transpired, despite the upheaval caused by the announcement of the ladies’ return, all were able to snatch a few hours of rest save for poor Mr. Schuyler. The man of the house was most desirous to speak with his lady wife regarding her progress on a _certain matter,_ and though he availed himself of the sherry bottle several times betwixt the hours of one and four, sleep was not a deliverance thus granted to him. He was so anxious, in fact, that he sat up the whole of that night in her chambers, knowing that she would immediately have need of his counsel; or more properly, he of hers, regarding the issue of Angelica’s betrothal.

With a couple less suitably paired than these two, such a presumption might strike us as a gross familiarity, given that a married woman’s chambers are meant to be inviolable: — in this instance, her bedchamber door, the safe, and the front entrance held the only three locks in the entirety of South End. In short, it was a place where a woman could rest assured of privacy; that privacy itself the greatest privilege. But the Schuyler husband did so dearly love his wife that he could intimate every shadow of her mood and even, as on this occasion, predict it.

For some months now, during Michaelmas term and the Lenten one which was presently underway, Mrs. Schuyler had thus far expended a great deal of energy in becoming acquainted with a handsome family by the name of _Church._ They hailed from the eastern seaboard of our fair country, the shire of Suffolk, and had come up in the world quite recently owing to a series of shrewd investments, schemes, and speculations undertaken by members of the father’s line. In short, Mrs. and Mr. Church had a great deal of money at their disposal, what could be used to procure the very finest carriages for regular travel between their landholdings, each of which held a home grander than the last, all suitable places to form the basis of a constituency, should a young woman of ambition wish it.

(We must pause here and express dismay, reader, that it will be necessary to introduce a number of personages in rapid succession and that we will have little time to dwell on the matters, so important in in daily life, of their appearances, their characters, or their inner states of being; — for any of these might fill whole volumes with but a little prodding from us, and as has been made ample mention already, we must come by and by to the story of our orphan, Alexander, and how he found a most unusual match of his own.)

Mrs. Elizabeth Church, known to her familiars as Bethany, was both well-bred and handsome, and had married below herself in rank; her mother had inherited a minor title upon the shameful divorce of her elder sister, and passed it on to her own daughter upon her death. Bethany’s husband was called Richard, and it was his father who had seen the value in water mills. Woolen money and the mother’s shrewdness had brought the family as a whole into the realm of respectable society, and an alliance with an even higher estate was the ultimate aim for their son. 

As befitting their ambition as to John, a fine specimen two years shy of his coming of age at one and twenty, little outlay had been spared in the matter of his education. His French was spoken with the aplomb of a native (owing to a tutor from Auvergne with a regimental passion for grammatical drills). His manners, too, were impeccable, and of so fine a quality that it was expressed amongst all who met him, that they could not be the product of mere expenditure, but must have derived from an inner grace bestowed by God.

The match, though taxing in its settlement and drawn out longer than necessary, would be of ultimate benefit to both families. It would balance the needs of the Churches for position and that of the Schuylers for a parish in which to gain a foothold for their daughter. Angelica was assured to be most comforted in this, the whirlwind of her life — when matrimony led to childbearing, which in turn coincided with the earliest and most vital stages of one’s political ambitions — by having at her side a young man so skilled in conversation, whose wit could sparkle but not outshine her own, who could flatter without deceit or ill will, and whose dimpled smile would be a most useful tool in securing the votes of the parish women.

However for some time, there was a very real concern that John Church, for whom the bloom of youth had only very recently reached its apex, and was most desirable to look upon, as many older women had remarked, might have formed an attachment of the heart with another young lady. Angelica’s equal in status, she was possessed of a more even-keeled temper on the whole. Milk-pale and with a blaze of red hair, her blue-eyed colouring rendered her an exotic specimen; though of course one might on occasion see a well-dressed man with snow-white skin walking all by himself through town, having raised himself up by unknown means, and as such altogether deserving of the widest approbation!

This girl, called Abigail for her mother, but known widely as Nabby, had captivated young Church with her unusual beauty, and there was concern that a private understanding had been reached between the two. In this Nabby was encouraged by her mother, who was a fierce rival of Lady Catherine’s in chambers, and an altogether ambitious woman about whom it is best to speak softly, lest she catch wind of such conversation. Or better still, not at all.

Philip paced the room; he opened the drapes and stared through them, listless, and from his seat at the window he watched the day break. Finally, at long last, as the sun began to clear the dewdrops from the lawn, did he espy the carriage, a mere dark speck against the horizon as it traversed the drive, becoming ever larger as it came into view.

Their manservant met the carriage and Lady Catherine was helped from the step. Her husband waved his handkerchief at her, and she acknowledged the greeting with a civil nod. Angelica stepped out, then, her appearance altogether fresher, as she undertook travel with much greater forbearance than her mother, and had besides the benefit of youth, that blessed and all-too-short time of resilience.

Catherine entered the room: her doting husband at once rushed to her side.

‘My love!—’ he exclaimed, as he clasped her hands to his chest, ‘Cady, pray, are you ill?’

‘I’m all right—’ she said, and fixed her eyes to a spot on the floor, as if by dint of finding its location the room might cease turning on its axis.

‘You must lie down,’ Philip insisted. ‘Was it the journey?’ He helped her from her traveling coat and with his hand around her shoulders led his wife to her bed. Her skin had an ashen cast to it; her hand was clammy as he kissed it.

‘Among other things,’ she answered with slow, drawn out breaths, so that her stomach might quell its rage ‘my time came when we had barely left the outskirts of Camden Town—’

Philip gasped with surprise as he made the calculations. ‘Eight days early?’

She nodded, swallowed. When she spoke her throat was dry, ‘It is the agitation caused by the Church arrangement; we must act quickly in this matter. There is not a moment to hesitate. They are settled and so are we. The banns will be read on the Sunday.’

‘This coming Sunday?’ Philip stood to fetch his wife a glass of water. He added a splash of brandy to it first, and drank a fingerful down before he diluted it further for her. ‘I suppose if Mrs. Church is willing to offer him before he comes of age, then it would be impudent to dally any longer.’

Catherine allowed herself to be sat upright and a few drops of brandied water given to moisten her dry lips. With a sigh, she fell back onto the pillow, guided by the tender hand of her most ardent husband, whose presence was a genuine comfort in such taxing times. She wrapped her hands ‘round the sides of her belly and exhaled with a groan. Tears pricked at the inner corners of her eyes — not caused by pain, which all Schuyler women could bear, and smile through, nor even by the sickness which accompanied her like a coachman on every journey — but for a silent, shaking moment, flowed tears caused by sheer relief — at having secured Angelica’s future, at having outwitted that- that snake Abigail, at her long-awaited return to her beloved South End, at the attentions lavished on by her Philip, the truest man in all of Monmouth, the kindest — and as she did this, Philip (who was altogether one of the kindest persons, woman or man, in the whole of the Five Counties) settled himself beside her on the bed, his strong hands smoothing and kneading the weary flesh of her back as he held her, and there permitted her to sleep away the cares of her journey.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Our Bedfellows Awaken — Alexander's Dilemma — On the Care and Schooling of Men — Mrs. and Mr. Prevost_

That night found Alexander in much the same situation as Mr. Schuyler, meaning that he was unable to sleep but on account of excitement of a different kind. This was, as we have noted already, a regular state of affairs. However, when they retired to the bedroom, Burr was of course there — though in Alexander’s experience, Burr was nearly always there — and as a consequence Alexander was forced to lie curled up on his side until the issue eventually subsided. The morning of Angelica’s return to South End found him proud, again, irascible, and Burr there, again: perfectly composed, sitting on the edge of a stool, his spine as straight as a tall pine tree, reading silently to himself from the Scriptures; in his manicured hand he held a slim volume of Marianist teachings that had been the property of his mother, deeded to him upon her passing. Burr looked as fresh and cool as a spring rain. Born without blemish or fault, his person was always immaculately composed. Bedfellows these some nine years and Alexander had never once seen Burr in a state of disarray or undress. If he had but bore wrinkles on his shirt, then Alexander would have suspected him of sleeping in his clothes.

Alexander winced as he sat up in bed. Light streamed in from the little window, cold in the April morning. ‘What is the time?’ he asked, and rubbed his eyes. ‘If I am not mistaken, then it is Wednesday, and my turn to help Mulligan with the porridge.’

Burr turned the page carefully and did not look up. ‘It is quarter past seven,’ he answered, and at this Alexander startled, for now that Mrs. Schuyler was returned, breakfast was served promptly at seven-thirty, at table, and everyone, even the girls, were expected to attend it. Mr. Schuyler was hardly so strict, fond as he was himself of lying abed much later. Alexander began to rouse himself from the bed, keeping his movements discrete so as not to attract Burr’s notice with regards to his situation.

He reached for his stockings and Burr fixed him with a gimlet eye. ‘I have done it already,’ he said, even as could be. ‘And set the kippers to poach. For of course, Mulligan must see to Angelica’s dress and ensure that it is fitted properly. He will work the whole day through, so we are to prepare the meals until the Churches arrive this evening; Mulligan will dress a hen for supper once Reynolds has dispatched it.’

Alexander shuddered as he slipped on his pantaloons. He was unsuited to the act of killing, even a thing so stupid and delicious as a chicken. Yet another reason the poor fool must be steered away from the military at all costs. He was brave in his way, and headstrong, but very quick to faint at the sight of blood.

‘It is the matter settled then?’ he asked. ‘Mrs. Church has been convinced?’

Burr laughed, showing his even, white teeth. ‘Lady Catherine is most convincing, Alexander, come come. I would not wish to find myself on the other side of her in anything requiring argument.’

‘But Mr. John Church? Did he wish for the match as well?’ Alexander had never met the young man in question, given that the courting had taken place in town, where Lady Catherine kept a small suite of rooms to serve as home and office away, and of course the Churches had one of their many, many properties.

‘You know this already,’ Burr said, as he turned away to allow Alexander his privacy, as much as this was possible in the small room. ‘He is lucky to have been dissuaded from Ms. Adams, and will be more than satisfied with our dearest Angelica. Her ambition will benefit from his gentle touch’

‘This is true,’ he agreed. In Angelica he saw much of himself: fire, and impudence, and a will so strong it would not be broken by any. If he had been born a woman, Alexander thought, he would have liked to be Angelica. Yet he also knew in his heart of hearts that Nabby Adams was widely beloved, by all accounts a very pretty girl, if rather dim. Her chief amusements in life consisted of practicing her penmanship by writing out passages of sentimental poetry, giggling at any mention of a good-looking man or boy of age, and doting upon her father John, whose temperament was so noxious that he found it difficult to make friends of his own, and was thus restricted to the sole company of his daughter. This was a poor lot for Nabby, who by all accounts should have followed the example set by her mother in pursuit of a council seat, or at the very least, a small parish, but she had no head for strategy, and was altogether more like a boy than her mother would have wished.

Alexander finished dressing hastily, then ran a brush through his dark hair to smooth its sides for tying back with a ribbon. He would take it down later and arrange it loose over his shoulders, for it was widely considered his best feature — in addition to a pair of heavy-lidded eyes, quick, observant, and at the same time somehow sensual in their attitude — a nose of a fine size, perhaps a shade too large, but pleasing nonetheless — a most full, generous, and expressive mouth — fine-boned hands, as able to pluck the feathers from a chicken as they were to delicately caress the keys of a piano, inclined to flawless penmanship (though, even given his advanced age, he was still given over to composing dreadful lyrics, when he should have been practicing more sober courtship and matters of household economy). Add to this the above-mentioned calves, of a most desirable size and shape, and everything above those equally well-formed, then a person might begin to wonder why, at three-and-twenty, Alexander had not yet found himself a mate or two.

A child of the Indies when he came to our shores, some eleven years prior, Alexander was naturally unfamiliar with our customs and the mores of this great land. When he was smaller — at a stage in life when girls and boys shared more of their time together in play and at school; —especially being instructed in the arts of dancing and the other good graces under the watchful gaze of an eternal bachelor, a Prussian by the name of von Steuben, who had been contracted for such a purpose by the great families of the area — he had gravitated towards the affections of his favourite older sister, Angelica.

But of course as a cousin, and the family ward, such a coupling could not be permitted, even in the act of thinking rather than doing — laying aside for the moment his complete lack of station, property, and title. Had his father been rich or his mother a baronet, then compromises might have been made in the pursuit of mutual welfare; but he had no father, and his mother was long dead. Then he had carried a childhood torch for John Laurens, his cohort-mate and school-fellow. Only after a conversation with Mr. Schuyler, who was kind but firm on the matter, did the full import of Alexander’s new lot in life come to settle upon him, like a heavy cloak in a snowfall: a comfort, yes, warm and enfolding, but restricting nonetheless. He might have been a young man of no consequence, but such a match would reflect ill upon the Schuylers, whose society was among the highest in Monmouth and the surrounding counties, and whose daughters were expected to ascend on their behalf.

What then remained for our Alexander? He might become the tutor of a wealthy woman’s sons, though he was truly deficient in both patience and decorum when it came to the matter of children, whose shouting and clamour frayed his delicate nerves. Perhaps he might meet a widow — older, eccentric, monied — who would tolerate his undue interests in rhetoric and grammar, who might not object to her sons and wards being exposed to this, the most unseemly and dangerous knowledge, better kept shielded from men who knew not what to do with it. Everyone knows, after all, that their reading should be limited to Scripture, the sonnets and comedies (though not the histories, pray!) of Willa Shakespeare, an unlimited amount of sentimental poetry, cookery instructions, and perhaps away from watchful eyes, one of the newfangled novels — written, some say, by men! — which had recently caused a sensation all the way from the West Country up to Norwich.

Most likely, he would be soon betrothed to a woman of some years and her first husband, to serve as helpmeet and cupbearer in their marriage. There had been talk, unknown to Alexander, between the Prevosts and the Schuylers, on precisely this matter. They had a good home in Cheltenham, and Mr. Prevost an annual income of five thousand a year, quite respectable. Mrs. Prevost was affiliated with the church, and had not yet produced an heir, and Alexander would be a great boon, it was thought, in resolving this situation. Theodosia Prevost was young to take a second husband, two and thirty, but her childbearing years would grow more dangerous as she aged, and the quicker she could be convinced to bear a girl, then all the better all would feel. Moreover, though nothing was particularly out of sorts, she had grown bored of Mr. Prevost, and wished for some diversion in her married life, as is only natural at such an age. If we may be so bold, it had been speculated that he no longer dwelt upon her as he was obliged to, by laws of Church and Matrimony, and an infusion of young blood might serve to ease her ill humour. 

Alexander held his hair back in one hand and frowned at his reflection. In this climate, where the River Wye made the air damp and humid, it would frizz from his temples in a most unbecoming manner. Burr closed his book, bowed his head for a moment in quiet reflection, and then stood from his seat. 

'Come along, Alexander,' he beckoned, as if he were the man of the house, rather than Mr. Schuyler. 'We must ring the bell for breakfast.' This tone infuriated Alexander and he clenched his teeth. His hair fell from his hands and he sighed; he would have to start all over again. 

'My toilet is incomplete,' he protested, 'I will join you in the kitchen momentarily.' 

Burr sighed, a sound nearly inaudible. 'You will be late,' he chastised, 'pray, do not tarry. After breakfast we must see to lunch, and then organize the front room for the wedding.' 

'I will be there,' he reiterated, picking up a pale blue ribbon, which looked very lovely against his dark waves, 'momentarily.' 

Burr closed the door on his way out. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Breakfast — John Church — An Outburst — Followed by Insincere Apologies_

Alexander was only a few minutes late to breakfast, as it transpired, and slipped silently into his usual place at Eliza’s left elbow, in the hopes that Mrs. Schuyler would not notice his tardiness. But that fearsome woman was absent at the head of table; and according to precedence and custom Angelica now sat there in her stead. Her features were composed into a grin that Alexander found quite unsettling, but he supposed it must be the logical consequence of her engagement, which has been known to make even the most sensible of women lose their decorum for a good while. Love, we shall see, can affect not merely the heart, but the countenance as well. 

‘Your mother must be fresh to receive our company this afternoon,’ said Mr. Schuyler, with a significant glance at those seated around the table. ‘I have sent her to bed with a hot water bottle and a warmed pillow of buckwheat groats and dried lavender. But it is most crucial—’ he continued, taking note of Alexander’s recent arrival, ‘that we do not rouse her with shouts and excitement. Her temper is paramount in these matters, and the days to come may prove a trial if we do not tread lightly.’

'When do the Churches arrive?' asked Peggy, who was prone to forgetting plans that had already been established in her absence. 

'This afternoon,' said Philip. 'They will stop on the way to pay a visit to Mrs. and Mr. Prevost—' and here he looked readily at Alexander, and Aaron also looked askance at Alexander, and Alexander looked directly at his lap '—so as to discuss the ceremony. The banns are to be read here as well as in Ipswich and Cheltenham. Oh, and London! We must not forget London!'

'London!' Eliza burst out, for she could not contain herself. 'Angelica, how very monumental!' 

Angelica lifted her shoulders as if to say it mattered not to her, that the Churches were of such means and could afford to send riders to all four corners of the land. Burr took advantage of the momentary state of reflection which followed to wait upon the bride-to-be. ‘Coffee or tea?’ asked, hovering demurely by her elbow.

‘Oh!’ cried Angelica, with some passion, Alexander thought, for it being so early in the day. ‘What think you all? I prefer coffee, as Mother does, it is much more of a bracing tonic, but this morning finds me so very agitated that I think tea would be preferable. What say you, Eliza?’

Eliza raised her head, touched her fork, and opened her mouth to offer her own solicitations on the matter, but Angelica talked right over her attempts. Here she laughed, a bright ringing sound, and continued with her line of the subject as if she had drunk ten cups of the stuff before sunrise, such was the excited glint about her eye. ‘Tea! Yes, I think tea, Aaron, for I am so aflutter this day that indeed I may never have need of coffee again!’ 

‘Of course,’ said Burr with a bow, and went to fetch it from the sideboard. When she had been served her drink, the rest of them stood, in their turns — first Angelica, in Catherine’s absence, then Philip, then Eliza, and Peggy; and only after they had helped themselves were Alexander and Aaron permitted to pick over the leavings of smoked kippers, porridge, and poached eggs. Burr had prepared them to perfection, but only one egg remained in the dish, for Angelica had taken more than her fair share. Alexander glowered, as she would likely talk all through breakfast and the eggs would sit, cold and congealing, until they were spirited away and mixed with the rest of the uneaten food to be turned into slop for the pigs. He loved nothing so much as a well-poached egg and a bit of toast. 

Burr cut away a piece of egg white with the serving spoon and placed it upon his dish, then handed the utensil to Alexander. ‘Take it,’ he said, with no small amount of feeling and good-will. ‘Are you certain?’ asked Alexander, the spoon wavering over the dish. ‘Better to be a man of God in actions than in words,’ murmured Burr, who did as his Scripture required and limited his breakfast to plain porridge, without even so much as a raisin to break the monotony of texture, and the merest scrap of egg. Nor did he take tea or coffee with his meal, but contented himself with a cup of plain hot water garnished with the merest sliver of lemon slice. Each bite he chewed no less than twenty-five times before he swallowed; a habit, we will see, that Mr. Schuyler now strove to emulate in his wish to slim before the wedding, or, if not by the time of the ceremony itself, then for the month of parties and _fêtes_ which are sure to follow every marriage of consequence. 

It had already been decided by the matriarchs that the wedding would be extraordinary and thus take place twice: once in the church, to be read simply after the banns by the local rector, which would be pleasing to the inhabitants of Monmouth, who were most traditional in their beliefs and the administration of ceremony; and at Mrs. Church's urging a _second_ ceremony would also be performed, in the Schuyler home, which had absolutely naught to do with God or moral rectitude, and everything to do with ostentation and being able to afford such an expense. Mrs. Schuyler thought that as long as the marriage was announced in the papers — and she could well envision the stormy look on Abigail the elder's face as she read the words there printed, with a sort of grim satisfaction— then she cared very little about appearing unseemly for a time. For the Church family were wealthy beyond measure, and she had no doubt that with perseverance Angelica would prove a very tempering influence on their profligacy. For now, it was better to agree to whatever Mrs. Church wished, vulgar or no, for any delay might provide an opportunity for the exotic Nabby to reinsinuate herself in young John's affections. 

Aaron Burr and Philip were quite occupied with their chewing, which gave Angelica ample opportunity to speak about the young man who was to become her first husband. Though much was known from her letters to them all, nothing could give so great a pleasure as to hear the story told anew from her own lips. After the spring rains swell its waters, the River Wye will occasionally burst forth its banks and flood the countryside with rich silt, and so it was this morning at table, even with the silence of the two men.

‘I am most pleased,’ said Angelica, with some force, ‘for I really feel that in being a wife I will understand more greatly the needs of my constituents; that it will increase my forbearance and my empathy for their lot, and Mother has said these are qualities that a woman of the people must have in spades.’

‘Yes!’ exclaimed Eliza, who had hardly touched her own eggs for want of vexation. She looked around the table, as if encouraging its occupants to agree with her. ‘But surely you are even more excited to be married to a young man as handsome as Mr. Church? He is so very accomplished, as you have made mention of in your correspondence?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Angelica, with a wave of her hand, and a tiny frown into her now-emptied teacup. Burr stood at once, covering his swallow with a napkin, and fetched her a second cup of the brew. ‘He is that, of course, and, as some say, very good looking. I have scarcely had time to notice, for we are so busy with the magistrates and the new laws about women's service in the military; a nasty business, yet some insist it is for the common good; — As for Mr. Church, we have not yet had occasion to dance together — Mother kept us so occupied with meetings and social visits — but his mother assures me that he is a very accomplished dancer, and has never wanted for partners.’

At this, Alexander and Eliza exchanged a look. ‘I have no doubt,’ Eliza said, slowly, ‘yet you must find him attractive, and he you?’

Philip reached the end of his session of mastication and interjected ‘—My dear girls! We all have eyes in our heads, do we not? Of course it is known that Mr. Church is most attractive, with a fine-boned face and a goodly height that comes from Mrs. Church. More to the point, he will produce offspring, we hope, who are graced with the mother’s wit and the father’s pleasing looks.’

‘Well said, Father!’ Eliza added. ‘You always speak such sense, does he not, Peggy?’ Peggy glanced up from her porridge and said, as if she had only recently awoken, ‘Yes, Eliza. Father always knows what is best for everyone, even us girls.’

‘Any man might be good looking,’ Alexander said, for he could not restrain himself from commenting, ‘if he were settled with twenty thousand and an annum of a tenth of that in pin-money alone!’

‘Alexander!’ ejaculated Angelica. ‘Must you be so rude?’

The poor ward’s face was aflame but he kept on his course and would not be dissuaded. ‘You speak of him so unjustly, sister, as if he were but a stepping stone for your own progress. Mr. Church, I am sure, has his own pursuits; why must we assume that ambitions are simply the property of woman!’

Angelica laughed, and it was a bitter thing, deeply felt by Alexander. ‘Have you been at the books again, my dear brother? I can assure you that you will find no quarter there, for the Frenchmen you so admire,’ — and she very nearly spat the word upon the table, ‘would not have you as one of their own, despite the claim of universal rights of man. They mean men, Alexander, of station and consequence, with land and lineage.’

Alexander had, as a matter of fact, somehow managed to steal into Lady Catherine's office under the greatest secrecy in the dead of night and copied passages from a thinker called Rousseau, about men being born free and kept in chains, and now, as he could not again warrant a visit there without being caught out by herself, had contented himself with translating the transcribed passages from French to German to Latin to Greek and back again, to see how their sense might change. (And in this process, of course, he mimicked the transfer of our own Scriptures from Mesopotamia to Coptic Egypt to Constantinople, but more on that anon, if we needs must.)  

‘Angelica—’ warned Philip, but his words were to no avail. For his part, Aaron Burr remained silent; it was not in keeping with his character to intervene in these, which he considered to be family matters. Rather he sat with his eyes on his breakfast and his heart, one could only imagine, lifted up to God.

‘Have you station?’ she asked her brother ward. Her tone was cruel and it cut to the quick. ‘Or consequence? Land? Title? A dowry even, to call your own?’

‘I have my wits,’ Alexander said, a hot anger creeping up his neck. ‘I have schooling—’

‘Thanks to Mother! You owe her everything in your life, and how do you repay it? Frightening off every couple you are introduced to with your - your intellect and incessant chatter!’

'The French say—' 

'The French!' Her face showed quarrelsome anger now, for Angelica was a formidable force of nature. 'Have you met a Frenchman, Alexander?' When he did not answer —because of course he had not met such a man, as his society was confined to those who came to South End and the locals of Monmouth — she continued, '—John Church is tutored by a Frenchman, a most outlandish sort of man, who thinks nothing of speaking directly to a woman who is so superior to him in every manner, even though he lays claim to some title or other — it is most unbecoming, and a tragedy for him, for how will he managed to secure a wife if he continues to behave as if—" 

‘—Enough!’ cried Philip, who was really very hungry, and thereby short of patience. ‘Pray, let us not quarrel. Angelica, Alexander, you are both at fault in this, as in so many things. Angelica has the right of it, Alexander, and you must hold your tongue in front of Mrs. and Mr. Prevost if you wish to make a favorable impression on them. Furthermore; it will not do to lash out in this manner; we have too much strain upon us already. Be silent, I beseech you, after you have made your amends.' 

With this chastisement, Alexander and Angelica offered their apologies, the one to the other, and the meal resumed in silence, until such time as Mulligan came to fetch Angelica to be fitted into her red bridal dress, and Aaron and Alexander excused themselves to clear the table. Lessons were already cancelled for the week, as there was so much to accomplish in such a short time, and Alexander was sorry to miss them, Franklin's sharp manner notwithstanding, for he was to be absent the sight of his beloved John Laurens. But not a moment could be spared for manners or French or penmanship, as the two wards were required to ready the parlor and discuss the flower arrangements, about which Mr. Church would very likely have strong opinions of his own. They did not know, for example, if he found palm fronds and cattails too _provincial_ in their significance, and wondered, as they removed to the front room, if the same flowers were used all the way to the east, or by rich persons, or if he would prefer blush peonies and white hydrangea to match his wedding attire. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Carriage Arrives — Three Observers — Transacting John Church — A Wedding_

The day passed in a blur of activity. Everyone was busy with preparations for the wedding, and this put them all in an ill humour: Mr. Schuyler was starving, and snapped at Mulligan when he suggested lowering the neckline of Angelica’s bridal dress, as was the fashion nowadays; Mrs. Schuyler was altogether out of sorts from her time of the month, and refused all visitors save her husband; Angelica was full of herself, even bossier than usual; Peggy had gone absent when she should have been helping Eliza take stock of the pantry and placing orders for the wedding breakfast; Eliza was unusually cross on account of Peggy’s forgetfulness; Alexander was required to cook and make cakes for teatime, which he actually held some talent for but detested nonetheless.

The only one who seemed pleased with the goings-on was Aaron Burr, who, if pressed on the matter, would have expressed his wholehearted excitement at finally being able to meet Mrs. Theodosia Prevost in person. He had been following her career with the greatest of interest, and Mr. Schuyler permitted him to clip passages from the papers regarding her burgeoning outspokenness on behalf of the Free Church movement.

A watchman had been stationed at the end of the drive so as to alert the household of the Churches arrival; he galloped up but a few moments ahead of them, and when Philip espied him (and the cloud of dust his horse threw up), he screeched, ‘They are here! Everyone! To the front at once! Make haste, make haste!’

Mrs. Schuyler appeared from her rooms. Aside from the peakedness of her face, her appearance was immaculate. She and Angelica raced down the front steps and quickly positioned themselves nearest the drive, and everyone else fell into line behind them. Eliza, who had been writing out orders for the wedding breakfast, reached over and quietly removed the blue ribbon from Alexander’s hair and fluffed it out, discreetly, over his shoulders. Then with a quick smile at her brother, she pocketed it and threw her shoulders back, her chin forward, and prepared to greet her new relations.

Mulligan helped Mrs. Church step down from the carriage; she was followed by Mr. Church, and then young John Church, who, Alexander could now see, was indeed as handsome as had been rumoured. ‘He’s so very much taller than Angelica led us to believe!’ he whispered across to his sister, who shushed him with a look. The ladies curtsied, the men bowed, and then Mrs. Church pronounced solemn words of welcome that Alexander did not pay attention to, for his mind was altogether preoccupied with the problem of the Prevosts, who would be there on the Saturday, and for whom, he now gathered, his person was meant to be intended.

The whole party returned indoors to take tea and then, the younger women and all the men save the bridegroom himself were sent away so that the immanent wedding might be discussed. Angelica, of course, remained. There were minor matters to talk over: the flowers, the breakfast, the honeymoon, if the remaining grandparents would be well enough to attend, and the parties, and who should be in attendance and where they would lodge.

Being summarily dismissed, Alexander, Eliza, and Peggy took this opportunity to avail themselves of the fresh air out of doors, for the house was so very crowded now, and busy. However, they did not venture far from the property, and in fact only managed to walk a few steps to the east of the front portico before doubling back and taking shelter in the tall boxwoods.

‘What are they saying?’ Alexander hissed, his voice well muffled by dint of his being trapped beneath Peggy’s skirts. ‘You must relay it to us without delay!’

‘Hush!’ said Peggy, whose fingers grasped the sill of the window as she strained to hear through the thick glass.

‘It will be impossible to hear them,’ Eliza said, matter-of-factly, for of the three, she was considered to be the sensible one, and thus considered because it was, in fact, true. However, she indulged their weakness for knowledge and stood well away from their lumbering forms — Peggy stood upon Alexander’s sloping shoulders, the both of them wedged against the brick for support — so that she might keep a lookout for any passers-by, or the medic who was expected later on, and alert her compatriots to their arrival.

‘Surely you can see at least?’ asked Alexander, who could see naught but the sole of Peggy’s half boot which was mashed, currently, against the side of his face.

‘Shhhh,’ Peggy hissed, and ducked her head with some haste.

‘What is it?’ Alexander said, his speech full of more-than-usual impatience. ‘I will tell you presently,’ Peggy responded, ‘but keep your voice down!’

Inside the front parlour, a ritual as old as time was taking place. A more extensive version of this interaction would have already been performed in London, in Lady Catherine’s private rooms, for the sake of expediency, and the full medical report done by a doctor in Mr. Church’s own chambers, for the sake of his modesty. Mrs. Church would have been present there as well, and Angelica, who would have observed closely the proceedings, for they were so sacrosanct that they were more powerful than human writing, older than the West Country, than Monmouth, than Rome. No record existed as to how the process of transacting a man took place; the knowledge was passed down, a carefully guarded secret, from mother to daughter, and so of course, naturally, we can allow our three wayward spectators some leniency in their undue curiosity. 

Eliza startled at a noise which turned out to be a woodthrush on the lawn. Peggy gasped then, and Alexander said, ‘What? What is it?’

‘It is most unusual,’ she said. ‘Mother is looking at his hands, and encouraging Angelica to do the same?’

‘Superstitious nonsense!’ snorted Alexander, ‘Fortune telling and astrology, to think, when we live in an age of science, and our Scottish neighbors to the north—’

‘Alexander!’ Peggy chimed at the same time as her sister said his name as well. ‘If you cannot be quiet then we will all be found out!’

‘Mother will be most cross,’ Eliza added, and the thought of invoking her wrath was enough to still Alexander for a time, at least. He leaned his weight against the sun-warmed brick and blew hot air against Peggy’s skirts, in an ill-advised attempt to give himself a bit more space to breathe. All this did was tickle her, and she swatted at him as if he were a fly buzzing beneath her dress.

‘Hold still,’ she said, impatiently, and then continued to narrate the goings-on. ‘Now he’s walking around the perimeter of the room, quite slowly,’ Peggy relayed. ‘And I must add, those are some extremely tight trousers that he is wearing. I had not thought to notice it before, but it seems most evident now.’ Eliza blushed, while Alexander’s own amused laugh resonated through her petticoat, ‘I dare reckon that there is good reason for that, my dear sister,’ he said, ‘What else?’

‘It all seems very ordinary,’ she continued, as John Church played on the piano, with voice accompaniment, then recited a poem in French and a prayer in English, all of which was customary. Paces, which Alexander had been put through many times himself. Then Peggy’s voice rang out with astonishment. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, ‘This is most unusual. He is sat on the divan again, with his mouth open and they are — it seems to me that they are looking at his teeth?’

At this, which was most unwelcome information, Alexander gave an involuntary shudder so strong that it sent Peggy pitching to the ground and, having caused a commotion that would surely hasten Mrs. Schuyler’s arrival at the window; and punishment swift to fall upon them, they fled the scene: Peggy to the dairy barns, Eliza to the kitchens, and Alexander to a nearby meadow where he was fond of walking, thinking, and discoursing aloud to himself.

Come Sunday, the party took three whole carriages to the church. Two set off from South End: the first, in pride of place, carried the mother and father of the bride, and the bride herself. The second held the two male wards and the younger sisters. They were met by the Churches who had taken their own carriage from the rooms they let in town, for there was simply not enough space for them all at the Schuyler home. The wedding was quite ordinary, as these things go: the bride wore red, the groom white, the mothers black, and the fathers cried, as fathers are wont to do. The ceremony was read by the rector with no deviation from the standard wording, which of course is known to all and sundry, but which we will reproduce here for the benefit of its being made part of the official history.

‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Woman and this man in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted in the time of man's innocency, commended to be honourable: and therefore not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men's carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God.’

Everyone rode back to the Schuyler home for a splendid breakfast prepared by Aaron Burr, and though the table gleamed with dozens of tempting dishes, Alexander’s mouth was as sawdust and he ate nothing, merely picked at a slice of Welsh cinnamon cake and left the most of it on his plate, untouched, as the party chattered around him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Wedding Party — More on Mrs. Prevost —A Widower of Mysterious Importance — A Husband's Station_

You will recall that the custom of the wedding breakfast, and the daylong feast and festivities which follow it, have only in recent memory become civilised and altogether more sober than before. Whereas we may indulge in an excess of claret or permit a few salacious and all-knowing glances, it is no longer thought proper to bestow gifts unsuitable for polite company, or to follow the bride and her groom to their chambers and like curious children await the sounds of happily bonded consummation. We make do with toasts and speeches; best wishes for the bridegroom and congratulations for the bride; and vestigial greenery that harkens back to, shall we say _— les coutumes paillardes_?

Our church is nowadays most modern;—the holiest of days is the Sunday Sabbath (which sets us apart from the Hebrews, the Moslems, and the Copts) — and is, naturally, the best day for the consecration of marriage. On this occasion, the happy couple, Mrs. and Mr. Angelica Schuyler, hoped to secret themselves away to her chambers before the party reached its apex, but were instead detained by the excesses of Mrs. Church, who felt compelled to remind everyone, in the fullest detail, about the various friends and relations who would be in attendance when they repeated the ceremony the following week. Already she had had much to say about the Prevosts, and Mrs. Theodosia Prevost in particular, under whose charismatic sway Mrs. Church had found herself and now spoke at some eager length with the passion of a disciple.

‘It will be such an honour to hear her sermon on the matter of your union,’ she smiled significantly at her newly lawful daughter. ‘Mrs. Prevost is surely the most well-spoken woman of God I have had the pleasure of hearing with mine own ears.’

At this Mr. Schuyler - whom we will hereafter refer to as _Philip_ , and to Angelica's freshly minted husband as _John_ , all the better to avoid confusion in our narrative _—_ at this he passed a very meaningful glance in Alexander's direction and said, ‘Mrs. Prevost enjoys reading, does she not? Or in having her husband read to her?’

For lack of anything better to do, Alexander put a hand in his pocket and then took it out again. He wondered if he might not be required in the kitchen, and could excuse himself on some pretext or other; more wine, the frosting of the cake, even scouring the pots. ‘Oh, yes!’ she insisted, ‘though her books are not anything that a common person would enjoy. I have heard her say that she finds more solace in silent prayer and spiritual song than reading as you or I might engage in.’

Eliza, always attentive to the comfort of her brother, took up a new subject in his stead. ‘And what of the Frenchman we have heard so much about? It is a pity he cannot be here with us today on this happiest of occasions.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Mrs. Church said, hastily taking the bait Eliza so shrewdly dangled before her. ‘John’s tutor will be here anon,’ she said, with the clear satisfaction that can only radiate off a woman of a certain age, who has recently placed her only son in the hands of a good woman, and a better family, and who could now without perfidy begin the search for a young companion to call her own.

Alexander thought, with chagrin, that it was a misfortune for propinquity to prohibit an alliance between himself and the Churches; Richard was quite amusing, in a dry and handsome way, and his wife seemed the type who might indulge Alexander’s intellectual aspirations if he paid her the right attentions. There were other alternatives, of course, and plans he had laid in store; a million ideas, ready to blossom if only given but an inch of soil and space in which to grow. So stunted, this poor man! A hothouse flower coaxed into submission, when he should have grown hardy and strong if planted out-of-doors in his natural environment and allowed to flourish in his own habitat. 

She continued, ‘I had hoped he would be here for the ceremony in church; he is near like a relation to us, and such a fond companion for John. A man always wishes for the company of another man, with whom he might share his anxieties and little confidences gained from his new position as husband. Unfortunately,’ and here she paused, and spoke with gravity, so as to let the import of her ensuing words sink in, ‘unfortunately, he was obliged to pay a visit to the Widower Washington in town — a man with whom he has some longstanding acquaintance! Such a man! And of course you know what befell his most esteemed wife, The General?' Everyone nodded here, for it was known by all; if not the manner of her life, then at least that of her premature and gruesome death. 'He was to visit there before making his way to Monmouth, and may try to convince the man to join him on his journey here, for he would be most happy to see our young people so ensnared and now enjoined in marriage! Yes, the Marquis sends his most happy congratulations to the couple.’ She lifted her glass and the rest of the party followed suit. Even Aaron Burr, stationed by the window in the far corner of the room, deep in serious conversation with Mrs. Schuyler, offered his glass of elderflower cordial in salutation.

‘To the bride!’ said Eliza, toasting her sister’s health. ‘To the groom!’

They all drank. ‘I think you will find him most sympathetic,’ said John, his eyes lowered modestly in order to speak directly to his new wife without boldness or giving undue offense. ‘I have told the Marquis so very much about you, my dearest Angelica.’

‘How charming you are,’ Angelica said, with evident pleasure, as she watched his graceful throat swallow around his wine. Alexander blushed on John's behalf; imagining their union of this very evening, and the shame he would feel at it. 

‘A Marquis!’ said Eliza, with a smile both broad and genuine. ‘All the way from France to here at South End! How very exciting!’

Alexander was inclined to agree with her, and had just opened his mouth to do so when Angelica elbowed him aside, metaphorically speaking. ‘Well, there you have it, Alexander!’ She laughed and her husband, whom up till this point had treated Alexander with all around kindness and gentle familiarity, also laughed. ‘Now see, you will become acquainted with a Frenchman after all! Perhaps you can avail yourself of his knowledge of your so-called Enlightenment and the universal rights of man!’ And here the entire party laughed again, though it must be said, Eliza and Philip did so with evident discomfort and very little in the way of genuine enjoyment.

‘Only do not let him corrupt you, Alexander,’ said the rector, who was by now well in her cups, and gently swaying to the sound of invisible harp and four strings. She hiccuped, raising a finger and, with a heavy exhale, reminded the party thus assembled of the sober duties of a husband, and his duty to provide his wife with a daughter, subsuming his own desires to hers, and the necessity of submitting to her will in all things.

“There was a time, in the history of our world, when man — as we know him —did not exist.  Woman was alone and without companion — destitute of a ‘help-meet’ — an assistant — almighty Power called forth — for this and no other Purpose to modify the base form of humanity — and we cannot say our lot was greatly improved by this addition — save in the matters of pleasure, and good looks — but the reproduction of offspring — of heirs to lands and all else — for that a man, or two, or three — would be most necessary — The Almighty in their wisdom divided us into two forms, and in Death, again, they are as One—' 

As this speech gave no indication of ending for quite a long time, Alexander made his excuses and slipped away, not to the kitchens, but his own room and his tables of Latin verbs. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Berry Picking — One Argument — And Another — An Indiscretion Along the Footpath_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Warning for one small mention of physical abuse.)

For five days and four nights the newlyweds had been indulged their privacy by all and sundry, to the degree that such could be granted in the cozy confines of the Schuyler home. Alexander, in particular, was most affected by the goings-on in Angelica’s chambers. He had not the chaste fortitude of his bedmate Aaron Burr, who seemed happily unaware of anything but his Scripture and his voluminous correspondence, and who could be found far from the noise the rest of the time in the kitchens, boiling up vegetable scraps for the mushroom pies that Mrs. Prevost was rumored to be most fond of.

In any case, each waking hour (and many in the night as well) proved the most exquisite torture for Alexander. The other members of the household also found it most convenient to be elsewhere occupied: Mrs. Schuyler with the local magistrates and councilpersons in town; Mr. Schuyler in ever-more-frequent constitutionals; Peggy off heavens knows where, but beyond reach or reproach; and Alexander and Eliza away from the house on some pretext or another — whereby they would walk to the square, or pass the shops in town, or, on a day such as this one, when the sun streamed so beautifully against the green slopes of the embankment — they might go berrying, as they were engaged in presently beneath a hot blue sky.

‘I am sure I never heard so outrageous a set of demands from anyone: not even the Regent herself. And to think, they are here by Mother’s express invitation!’ Eliza scoffed, then continued, ‘Well, hers and Mrs. Churches', but nevertheless,' and at this she extended the parasol to shield Alexander’s fair neck from the brightness overhead, and prevent his overheating during the course of their errand. She was speaking, of course, about the Prevosts, who had provided the two families and the rector with a written list, consisting of three pages covered front and back in delicate scrawl, which enumerated at length what dishes they would eat and those they would not; the manner in which their furniture should be placed in their rooms in the rectory; the specific types of fabric that were wanted for their bedclothes; the customary ways in which they should be addressed; and at the end of all this, annotated references had been made to many works of obscure scholarship that even Alexander was unacquainted with, but copies of which were said to be necessary for the smooth preparation of the service.

Mrs. Prevost had also made it be known that she would spend the whole of the old Sabbath and at least part of the new — meaning from Friday sundown to Sunday dawn — alone in the vestry, and that this space was to be a most blessed sanctuary, as consecrated and holy as the temple of Athena, for the whole of that time. No woman should enter its bounds save herself, but she had indicated in her letters to Mrs. Church and Mrs. Schuyler that the younger men might: —if they were honest and sober in their manner and felt themselves moved so by the Spirit. By Her Grace they would be called upon to pray at Theodosia's side and give their thanks for the union of woman and husband.

‘Have you ever read of such practices?’ Eliza asked, and held the basket out for him as he knelt down and peeled back the glossy leaves to reveal a mass of sweet fruit. The berries were soft, as it was a hot day despite being only the first week of May, and Alexander inadvertently crushed several of them before he had even loosed them from their stems. These he permitted to drop to the ground so as not to stain his white trousers; — in his own pretty way, he too was a guardian of the Athenian temple.

‘I have heard of similar customs in ancient times,’ he said, laying his treasures in the wicker basket with reverence, ‘and though I have but little knowledge of the Americas, I must have somewhere have read reports of similarly strange behaviour, though of course their roles are very much reversed there. For men are the ones who pray and in fact entreat the women! — to be quiet and virtuous!’

‘There,’ she said, with a graceful hand indicating an unmolested stand of leaves near his foot, ‘you have missed those. I wonder,’ she went on, ‘that any people as we know them so much as exist in the New World. Gentlewomen and their menfolk, I mean. I would think it is a place entirely populated by guns and horses, full of violent scoundrels who eat raw bear meat for breakfast!’

Alexander dusted off his knees as he stood and they made for the next stand of berries. ‘It is not all so full of horrors,’ he told her, ‘there is good there as well, I have seen it.’

She stepped nimbly over a rock which was in their way and extended a steady hand to help him do the same. When they had set out on the path once more she asked, ‘Do you mean in St. Croix? It is rare to hear you speak so.’

(And why, pray, should Alexander dwell on what his life had once been, or could have turned out to be, if they had never left that place? If his parents had remained close at hand, their lives as entwined as a finely graded skein of wool, knit tight together; his mother alive, his father present? The feel of warm sand beneath his bare feet, and nights so black and still they might have all been at the bottom of the ocean?) 

‘I have fond memories of the place,’ was all he would venture to say as they continued in the direction of the outbuildings. ‘And perhaps one day not so far off I will be able to see it again.’

‘But your life is here? In Monmouth,’ chastened Eliza. ‘And of course soon you will be settled — quite comfortably! — with Mrs. and Mr. Prevost. Why, hardly twenty miles distant from South End as the crow flies. I am sure we will be able to visit one another as often as my lessons and your husbandly duties will permit.’

He hummed a noise of assent, but this sound in turn gave voice to his inner state of vexation and then gusted out as a sigh. What brought him to speak thus, here on this hillock, when he had accepted his lot for so long without complaint? 

It goes without saying that Alexander ought to have remained quiet; he ought to have held his tongue. But he could not help but declare his intentions to his sister, and emboldened by passion he cried out, 'I can do better for myself. You know my heart, Eliza, and it demands more of me than to waste my life as the second husband of a- a — _charlatan_ , trapped here in the provinces, serving tea and bowing right and left to women who are no match for me in intellect!' 

Eliza stopped short at this declaration, and she looked altogether ill at hearing its sudden pronouncement. Yet Alexander would not be deterred from the subject, now he had taken it up, and charged ahead most recklessly. 'I see no reason why I must do as I am bidden,' he said with force. 'By you, or Lady Catherine, or Angelica, even! And if that means I must away from here, and will in time find myself in- in — _reduced circumstances_ , then, as I have blood in my veins than that is what I shall do!' 

'Surely you cannot mean—' she replied, her mouth agape, the berries all but forgotten beneath their feet. Alexander stood before her, trembling with the force of his declaration, as if by uttering it, he had willed it to come true, and was now faced with the stark consequences which were sure to follow. Eliza hastened to make amends and pled with him to see sense. 'Have we ever harmed you in any way, dear Alexander? Begrudged you a single comfort of any sort? We are your family!' 

For this Alexander spared only a moment's pause before continuing with his prevarications. 'I will do what I must,' he said, with an indignant toss of his shining head, 'but no, upon my word, I tell you this day that I will _never_ marry! Not Mrs. and Mr. Prevost, nor any woman of fortune to whom your mother owes a favor, who will bear down upon me as if I were a-a — fig ripe for the taking!' 

‘Alexander,' she cautioned, 'If you mean what I think you must mean, then it will be the source of such shame upon us all!’

‘I can bear it, dearest sister,' he entreated her with outstretched hands. 'I am worth much more than the price of shame, I promise it.’

‘But I,’ and as she spoke, her eyes filled to the brim with passionate tears, ‘ _I_ could not bear it. And, then come — what of the rest of us? Of Aaron, and Peggy? What of _me_ , Alexander? You are very well mistaken if you surmise that any man would will an alliance with the family of a runaway or a known —!’ And here she stopped, unable to even utter the word of that which Alexander had by now come to consider his only means of escape. (Yes, even that: to become a common-law companion for the elderly in one of the houses which dot the seaside in one long, unbroken stretch from Exmouth to Blackpool; or, failing that, to chance as his luck took him to the pleasure houses of Bath, or London, or even Paris. His ambition knew no bounds, and his dream would not be compromised.) 

‘Eliza—’ he began, for he knew her heart, and her heart’s desires; for they were the same as his own. She longed (as did he) for the sweet embrace of John Lauren’s strong arms, to be the person whom he smiled upon, doted on, and would make most violent love to — although, on further reckoning, perhaps she did not share in that latterly desire to quite the same extent as Alexander. Strong sentiments were foreign to her, for her heart knew only honest love and tenderness, the most noble feelings of untarnished virtue in contrast to Alexander’s drumbeat of eternal passions.

‘I espy Father,’ she said with a most obvious sniff to hide her derision and anguish at this distressing news. Eliza was by and large very slow to anger — her temper constant, her nature sweet and benevolent — but when it happened, she became a flame that engulfed the whole of Creation. ‘I will go to him at once.’ At this she set off across the meadow with the utmost determination in her stride, taking the parasol with her.

And being so predestined in the assurance of his sins, Alexander found it altogether easy to increase their number fractionally. When he was meant to return for tea with Mrs. and Mr. Prevost, instead he secreted himself away to a nearby copse of birch and lime trees, amongst whose roots he had hidden a box. It contained transcriptions of all he had been able to learn from the books in Lady Catherine's study, about the customs of the lands to the north where he hoped to one day find his absent father, the perpetual scoundrel James Hamilton. 

Upon his return, well past tea-time, he found Lady Catherine awaiting him in the front room. She bade him come in, and questioned him as to the nature of her own aggrievement. Alexander very much disliked this state of affairs, where he was expected to be complicit in his own torture, and ascertain which of his many, many failings had disappointed his mistress on this particular day. If he guessed wrong, then he would have the added pleasure of having called her attention to something which she might have otherwise overlooked. If he surmised correctly, then in pointing to the failing, he showed it to be one of which he was well aware; and being thus so aware, would be able to conceal and prevent in the future. In other words, he was d----ed no matter what road he took. For Alexander the surest path was that of honesty, insofar as this allowed him his honour and truth to his own person.

‘They have come and went,’ said Mrs. Schuyler, quite sharpish in her tone. ‘And as you, Alexander, were nowhere to be found, they have cut short their visit and returned to the rectory.’

‘That is not so very bad, is it?’ asked Alexander, as he clasped his hands behind his back demurely. ‘I will call on them tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow will be too late,’ reprimanded Lady Catherine, ‘Have you taken no heed of the instructions given over to us by Mrs. Prevost? She was most cross at your absence.’

‘I confess,’ Alexander said, stumbling a bit over the words, ‘that with all the preparations for the week I have had but scarce time—' 

‘—Perhaps it will interest you to know that Mr. Burr has insinuated himself in the place which should have been yours,’ she said with an angry flash. ‘He has ridden with them in their carriage! You must go to them at once and apologise for your abominable behaviour. Grovel if you must, but do not return to my house until you have made amends.' 

Alexander’s temper could bear not one more moment of accusation. ‘I must do no such thing!’ he exclaimed, at which Mrs. Schuyler looked altogether taken aback. ‘I am sorry to have missed them, and more than that, I am sorry — deeply, apologetically; sorry, prostratingly sorry, if it please you, Lady Catherine — to have missed a chance for connection with Mrs. Prevost — for I know it is what you wish for me. It is,’ and he could not still his wagging tongue for even a moment, and this last was to be the final strike against his character in the eyes of his benefactor, ‘—it is not for you to settle me upon them like - like an exhausted milk cow who is better fit for the slaughterhouse! An alliance between the families is all to the good, but John and Angelica are married, quite well-matched from the sounds of it, and happy, extremely, conscionably happy—' 

Lady Catherine rose from the divan, drawing herself to her full stature, and such was her anger that Alexander shirked from her, afeared that she would slap him across the face, as he had seen his father do to his mother; in another time, another place. Yet she merely lifted one graceful arm and pointed at the entryway. 'Go,' she said very simply, in a tone which brooked no argument. 'And if you do not find a way to enter back into Mrs. Prevost's good graces—' 

But Alexander had already fled away from the house in tears. In his anguish he ran unreservedly in the direction of his woodland cache of materials, utterly determined to steal away at once; but then, as his breathing grew laboured and his face very flushed from exertion, it dawned on him that he had no money, and no supplies, and his shoes were thin-soled and unsuitable for a long journey. Nor had he eaten since — well, he could not recollect the last meal he had swallowed more than a few tasteless bites of — and if he was so anxious to run away and make for the southern shires and some semblance of his freedom — then the best time to engage in this folly would be when all others were occupied with — Ah! With the wedding!

His mind now resolved on the matter, Alexander flopped down a ways from the footpath beneath the welcome cover of a large oak tree. He leaned his back against it and breathed the hot, still air into his overtaxed lungs, and awash with steely determination, began to plot his escape. He closed his eyes, dozed for a moment, and when he woke with a start — a crick in his neck, and a stiffness in his pants — Alexander was most pleased to find himself availed of a moment alone in the shade. He removed his constrictive jacket and wadded it into a bundle; he had only begun to entreat himself to it most vigorously when he startled to hear hoofbeats clipping along the path. The voice of a man, a deep, unfamiliar, and resonant voice, that asked, in most chivalrous manner, 'Young man,' it said, and Alexander froze in abject terror to be caught out so by a stranger, 'young man, are you quite all right?' 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Mysterious Man of Stature — The Ride to Town — At the Rectory — A Falsehood Discovered_

Poor Alexander was fortunate in not being so far gone that he could not recoil, though of course his disheveled state was nothing favourable to look upon. For a start, his blue jacket was very probably smeared with dirt and dandelions, his once-smooth hair now loose and unruly, his breathing rapid and shallow. Mortified, he hunched over his own body in the soft grass. 

‘I am well,’ he said with a tight-pinched voice and rolled away so that his back was to the man and he might be able, in such time, to compose himself accordingly. ‘Please,’ he said as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, ‘there is no need to trouble yourself. Sir,’ he added, on the chance that the man was in fact a gentleman, and so due a gentleman’s epithet.

All those rushing thoughts which had fueled his pleasure: — the especial way that his schoolmate John Laurens held a pen, twirled his hair, ate an apple; — vague, half-formed memories of his childhood in St. Croix, of porters, sailors and shipsmen, with strong hands and broad backs, their shirts soaked through with the sweat of heat and labour; —drawings and illustrations he had seen in books: — warrior men of Sparta and of Thebes, graceful and wide of shoulder — all of these thoughts hastened to recede from his view as he turned to see what manner of man had discovered him _in flagrante_. 

Alexander had been acquainted, in his three and twenty years on earth, with a number of people we would call men. He was himself a man of sorts, though he had never known a woman and was, by that reckoning, still very much a boy. But men abounded in Monmouth. He could count them off on his fingers, if you liked. Mr. Schuyler, Mr. Franklin, Mr. Henry Laurens, who was father to John, the flamboyant Baron who gave them all dancing lessons, the preacher’s husband, Reynolds, and Mulligan; — all could be anointed, and fittingly so, with the designation of _man._

Exaggeration is to be expected when one describes encounters such as these, in their telling and retelling, in life and in story. Every woman is the most handsome, every man the most beautiful; extreme versions of ourselves, so our contours may be understood by the widest possible audience. Alexander, espying the man in the woods, whose appearance was so very unlike anything he had ever recollected seeing before or, for that matter, since; at this very moment, as he turned his head to look over his shoulder, here in a leaf-strewn patch of woods, at sunset — until this precise moment, Alexander thought that he had never before met a man.

(It was as if his picture books had come to life.)

The dappled light through the leaves cast his face in shadow at first, but even without seeing his visage Alexander could tell that he was a person of considerable height, his stature exacerbated by the fact of his being seated astride a horse as finely muscled as its rider. When he came into view Alexander could further see that his clothes were of good quality but very plain, in black and gray and white, which were fine but free of flourish or ornament or decoration; and the same was true of his tall black riding boots and the brown leather equipage of his horse, a monstrous beast of palest white with a blaze and mane of gray, and shining black hooves as large as dinner plates. Alexander shrunk back from the sight of it as it drew close to where he lay. 

Lying awkward on his shoulder and causing it to go numb, Alexander’s mouth gaped in an impolite grimace. He stared up from his position on the ground most unbecomingly and had not the wit of sense to manage or massage the impression he made. Struck dumb, he was, and for a man as talkative as Alexander, this was a rare state of affairs indeed.

For whoever this stranger was, he could not place him; he was unknown by the reckoning of Monmouth society, though he possessed the air, Alexander thought, of a gentleman. The choice of _Sir_ had been most fortunate. His noble brow bore a hint of concern, though his voice had been kind in its speaking. A man of honour, he decided immediately.

The horse snorted and bowed its head as the rider dismounted. Alexander was helped to his feet before he could so much as protest, and then, in a shocking turn of events, this elegant man twenty years his senior righted him, handed him his coat and dusted it off, helped him back into it, and with a graceful step back to allow him his privacy, doffed his hat and bowed. The other man bowed to _him_! A very low and dignified bow, was it, too, which brought the smooth top of his head very near level with Alexander’s waist, and he stepped back with alacrity. Alexander could make no sense of it but he repeated the gesture on his side, keeping his manner as unaffected as possible.

The man, he had surmised, was a soldier; in this he was correct. And in finding himself in possession of a stranger, a handsome one at that, he thought this a good opportunity to prevaricate in service of his plan. In other words, he would lie. He must take the lead in questioning, and occupy the man with such interesting and diverting conversation that he would, in due course of their acquaintance, begin to crave his companionship. It would prove a steady trial for his future schemes down south.

‘I hope I did not startle your horse, Sir,’ he said, with a cautious glance at the great beast, who seemed to be eyeing him with suspicion, as if it could tell he was about to tell its owner a falsehood. Alexander felt about horses the way they tended to feel about him; — that is, he did not like them much. From the reclined comfort of a coach and four he could see their merit, in speed and strength, but the animals themselves, in the flesh, overwhelmed and intimidated him.

The man patted the flank of his horse. It whinnied and nudged him until he stroked the velvet of its nose with one fine hand. ‘He is well acquainted with commotion,’ he said, and then with a curious glance at Alexander asked, ‘Are you to the village? Please allow me to escort you. You look very ill.’

‘I assure you, Sir, I am well,’ insisted Alexander, affronted. It was like speaking to a stone wall. The man would not hear it, neither protest nor excuse, and with arms near thrice the size of Laurens’, grasped Alexander around his waist and lifted him bodily from the ground. His excitement which had for a time abated, returned with a dizzying rush, and when he was placed sideways in the saddle, Alexander swooned. A steady hand held him upright and the horse did indeed remain patiently still while its passenger wobbled uncertainly in his seat.

‘We are headed north,’ said the man, and took the reins in hand. ‘And will see you brought safely to your destination.’

Alexander could hardly find it within himself to argue, and he could not, at least without assistance, dismount. A companion should be gracious, amusing, kind, and droll, and so he undertook his charade with enthusiasm and introduced himself to his travelling companion as _Alexander_ _Hamilton_ : a small lie, merely a black one.They continued at a foot pace — out of the forest and up to the riverbank, along the footpath and the carriage tracks and thence to the north side of town, where the rectory was very happily situated on a good-sized lot — and Alexander babbled and made conversation for the whole of the journey. It was altogether one-sided, as his companion was a man of few words, and would yield up only the information that he traveled on some business or other, to meet some acquaintance or other, and knew not the neighbourhood or its personages, and was there from elsewhere for a period of time. 

When they arrived at the rectory, the soldier helped him down from his sideways seat in the saddle, and his capable hands lingered for a brief moment around Alexander’s waist. The horse watched this turn of events and swished its tail, as if to show its displeasure. 

‘Thank you for your assistance, Sir,’ said Alexander, his tongue thick in his mouth, and the man bowed to him once more. A stablehand appeared from behind the building, then, and there was a moment of some confusion as he escorted the horse away, with assurances of feeding it the best hay and oats as could be procured, and to curry and brush it until it gleamed. 

Alexander subsequently found himself and his mysterious companion on the doorstep but had no time to question why he was there with him. Perhaps some act of chivalry required him to hand Alexander over to the care of a woman his superior, and when the manservant opened the door, and showed them into the parlor, all became known with horrifying clarity. 

The soldier bowed very low to the assembled company, and said, 'Mrs. Schuyler; Mrs. Prevost; Mrs. Church; Mrs. Walker,' and Angelica clapped her hands, 'You have found him!' 

'Yes,' said the man, with a grave yet amused tone, 'I have found your Mr. Schuyler in the woods.' And then at the urging of the ladies, they sat, and introductions were made. For this was the man Washington, whose wife had been such a General that history tutors for a hundred years hence would speak her great name with awe and astonishment. John's tutor was there, too, a tall and comely fellow by the name of Lafayette, a Frenchman by birth but not by loyalty, with whom Washington exchanged fond glances and, Alexander thought, would have embraced most heartily if they were not surrounded on all sides by women of stature. 

Alexander, though, was too anxious to be impressed. He was aghast that he had been caught out in his lie, by a gentleman widower who had allowed him to chatter on so unguardedly with no indication of his prior knowledge or acquaintance. Thus he could think on scarce else for the rest of the evening, even through the dinner that they were forced to endure — with no meat of any kind, nor cheese, nor wine, and even missing certain vegetables that Mrs. Prevost refused for unclear reasons to consume — and the games of whist and charades which followed — and the ride home, when the carriage had been spoken for, with Angelica and John and Aaron; —each of whom spoke at length about what a noble specimen of man the Widower Washington was, and how exciting it was that he was come to town, and wondered aloud whether he would dance at the assembly rooms and with whom, and then, as they drew closer to South End, a journey of some half an hour, all three found it convenient to comment on Alexander's altogether uncharacteristic silence. 

'Talk to us,' urged Aaron, and Alexander shook his head, gave a tight smile and said, 'I am too tired from this day, Mr. Burr. I will think on the matter and tell you my opinions tomorrow.' 

Only when tucked into his bed and falling into a fitful sleep did Alexander remember that he had yet to make amends with Mrs. Prevost. He yawned, and decided that Aaron Burr had likely already made apologies on his behalf, having been at her side the whole of the evening, speaking to her with a soft air and the most beguiling of smiles, and that, on the whole, Aaron was better suited for her company than he was. He fell asleep, then, and dreamed of woods and horses with terrifying foam and spittle on their moon-pale teeth. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Preparations for a Wedding — An Encounter between Friends — Alexander Offers Unheeded Advice — Aaron Burr's Secret_

The following days bustled past, and all were thrown into purposeful activity again, and Angelica and John were coaxed from their room, so that Mr. Schuyler could query them about the buffet menu, and yet more flowers, and a hundred other small questions besides. John blushed when spoken to by any of the household, but especially by his sister-in-law Eliza, and Angelica, though curt and demanding as ever, appeared in an altogether better disposition than before she had taken on a husband. (In this change, reader, you may better understand the nature of her temper and steps which might, in the future, be taken to persuade it in some direction or the other.)

Mulligan had cleaned the house from porch to portico and every corner sparkled with the sharp scents of lemon and vinegar commingled. On the Friday morning he was upset to learn that Mrs. Church, in conversation with Mrs. Prevost, had determined that the house was too small to comfortably hold all their company, the buffet, the musicians, and the space for dancing — for at a wedding party, there must of course be dancing. Inquiries were made, and the town’s assembly rooms booked on short notice and at great expense (borne by the groom’s family, and hardly felt by dint of their fortune), and on Friday afternoon the household was so much aflurry that no one, save Alexander, noticed Aaron Burr slip from his rooms and, leaving a note in the hall, make with determination on the path to town.

The note was addressed to Mrs. Schuyler, but, Alexander reasoned, as she was his mistress and he her ward, he was, in all due respects, little more than an extension of her person, her property, and her will — and in being essentially of the same substance as her — it was only logical that as he was property of Mrs. Schuyler then all that was addressed to her was intended for him as well, and, all things being equal: — he should read the letter. Immediately upon deciding this, Alexander snatched it from its lying place on the entryway table and, upon scanning its contents, lost no time in hastening down the path after Burr.

‘Mr Burr!’ he called out after the swiftly retreating figure. ‘Aaron!’ He caught up with him as he passed the linden walk, Aaron's steps growing ever more hurried in an attempt to outpace Alexander. His fellow ward was having none of it, and walked as hastily as he could, and when walking did not do the trick, he ran. Even after having caught up the object of his determination, Burr seemed unlikely to slow his progress to accommodate his friend, and so Alexander settled for walking backwards in front of Burr, positioning his person so that every time Aaron tried to pass him he was checked, and bodily so. Alexander was an expert, as only a young male ward in a house full of women could be, in demanding attention by whatever means possible. If it meant blocking Burr’s passage until he spoke to him, then that is what he would do.

‘Alexander,’ Aaron Burr said at last with quiet exasperation, though he continued with his determined stride. ‘Please stop bothering me.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Alexander, hopping backwards along the path before his friend. ‘Did Mulligan need something from the grocer? Let me think a moment. What could he need? We have berries, I know, for I picked those, Eliza and I picked ever so many of them, and Reynolds has brought us a whole wheel of fine new cheese. Was it more brandy for the sauce? Sugar for the cake? Oh, no, of course not, as I went with Peggy yesterday to fetch those, and we have laid in everything else needed for the buffet.’

Burr glared but kept his lips sealed. He was quite perturbed, Alexander insinuated, for even in his highest agitations would the hint of a smile play about his lips. A frowning Burr was a most dangerous Burr indeed.

‘Oh!’ he exclaimed, ramping up the game. ‘I know! Have you decided that the poor would benefit from a visit? Surely that is the most Christian and charitable thing to do before a wedding, and it ensures that the couple’s fortunes will bloom in prosperity and wealth. Except,’ and he looked Burr over — taking in his recently shaved chin, his fine clothing, very fitted and extremely clean, as he was dressed in colours of clearest bloodroot, burgundy, and butter lemon, a pattern incorporating them interwoven on his embroidered waistcoat (Burr’s own fine handiwork, of course, such an eye for detail!) that Alexander knew he thought showed him to best advantage — ‘except you have no basket with you, nor Bible! Hah!’

Burr strode on. Alexander trotted alongside him, now at his right-hand side, afraid that if he walked backwards he would stumble into the riverbed, for Aaron really was moving quite dextrously and fast. ‘And really Aaron,’ he said, ‘I would think that you, of all people, would know that it is considered bad form to perform charity when one is dressed in one’s Sunday best, as it reminds the common people so much of their low station, and how we, as gentlemen, even poor gentlemen such as you and I, without means or fortune, are infinitely superior to them, no matter what your Scripture may say about the supposed equality of people, or the rich woman and the camel — ‘

‘Enough!’ cried Burr, and he stopped short, covering his ears with his hands. ‘Thank goodness,’ said Alexander with a bright smile that would have melted snow in its sincerity. ‘I am glad to avail myself of this opportunity to catch my breath.’ And he tugged at the sleeve of Burr’s coat, urging his walking companion and his oldest, his only, his first real friend, to sit with him on the riverbank.

Alexander waited for Burr to speak first, and, as this was difficult for him, he plucked a clover flower from the grass and rolled the stem between his palms as he bided his time.

Aaron Burr’s chin dropped to his chest and he rested his elbows on his knees. ‘You saw my note?’

‘Yes,’ Alexander answered, for he had read it. Though addressed to Mrs. Schuyler, it had been left out where anybody might find it and examine its contents. The precise wording he could not recall with perfection, though he was on the whole strong in his faculties of memory. The sense of it was that Mr. Burr had been persuaded — by the very strong feelings of divine love and his hope, which sprung eternal, for salvation in the hereafter, was away to the sanctuary of Athena (by which of course we mean the vestry where waited Theodosia Prevost, whose put-upon piety fooled Alexander not one jot) — to fast and pray until the sun broke through the clouds on the right honourable Sabbath, and being thus cleansed of sin and impure thought, Mrs. Prevost would perform the duties of her holy office for Angelica and John once more, in sight of all their friends and family.

‘Everybody will be here,’ Alexander reminded Burr, and plucked another piece of clover. ‘They will hear of it. A wedding is the very best time for gossip to spread, and here we are,’ he added, ‘dumping fuel on their most improper modes of speculation!’

Aaron turned his graceful neck and looked at Alexander with a sentiment akin to pity. ‘I am called,’ he said, ‘it is Testimony. I am sorry to trouble you, Alexander, but the deed is already done. The bullet has left the gun.’ With these parting words he stood and smoothed the legs of his skin-tight trousers. They could hardly wrinkle, Alexander surmised, for they had not a centimetre of fabric to spare for a crease.

‘Are you quite sure?’ Alexander repeated, for Burr was a watchful sort of man, and one whose decisions were not undertaken lightly. If he meant to go to Mrs. Prevost in this way, then it would be the result of his waiting and deliberating on the matter for some time, weeks; months even. How could he have known she would decide on this course of action? What inner knowledge had he been privy to prior to her arrival in Monmouth?

(It should be noted that, just as Alexander fiercely guarded his treasure trove, the notes kept under his side of the bed or in a box in the woods — passages of schoolgirl Latin, copied methodically from Eliza’s medical and scientific workbooks, his tracings of maps of Scotland and France, a few letters his mother had written to his father when they all lived in Nevis — so Burr kept a cache of mementos all his own. These consisted chiefly of news clippings which made mention of Theodosia, pamphlets printed on strong-woven paper which contained the teachings of the Free Church, a few indifferent letters received from Mr. Prevost and a very enthusiastic one from Mrs. Prevost, and, in a matchbox, a locket of her hair, clipped with a golden scissor and sent as token with the letter. In our society, this fairly constitutes a promise of the most sincere and ardent attachment. It is as serious as a declaration of love, or, as we shall see anon, a proposal of marriage.)

‘I am sure,’ Burr repeated. ‘I thank you for your troubles,’ he said, quite stiffly and with manner akin to affectation. Then he bid Alexander good day, turned on his heel and set out once more for the rectory; his Theodosia, and, Alexander worried, his downfall.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Stream of Supplicants — On Custom —Theodosia’s Sermon — Alexander’s Three Problems_

Dawn broke, and the day that sprung forth was among the finest that any woman now living could remember. Everybody remarked — amidst their preparations, their hurried breakfast teas and snatched crusts of toast — on the blueness of the sky, the absence of cloud, the brightness of the sun. Clear, but not too hot! How fortunate they all were! It was, as it turned out, a perfect day for a wedding, but an even better one for a party.

By the time the churchbells pealed for matins, already the ruts in the roads had grown deep. An endless parade streamed in the direction of Monmouth, as if they were shavings of lead pulled there by the great force of a powerful magnet. A sea of bays and chestnuts, brindles, blacks and grays: — who drew behind them post-chaises, carriages, coaches, — these latter either slap-bang, pill-box, or fly-by-night; vegetable carts pressed into service, trundle-wagons; even one man, clad very poor, who pushed three small children with sticky faces in a rusty wheelbarrow more suited for turnips than the conveyance of living people; — and still more, who trudged there on their own swollen feet and with tired legs. All converged at the little church on the north side of town, and hitched their horses, and remarked on the weather, then found a pew if they were lucky.

There was to be a sermon on this occasion; a wedding of medium importance transformed into a major one by virtue of Theodosia’s presence. She had in recent years bolstered her celebrity by speaking out against certain tenets of the Church, and was convincing, in the way that only a very shrewd woman without scruples could be, for she knew what lay in the hearts of men (and women), and it was to hear that she had true report of their assured salvation.

For our part, we have long held to the commonsense that the efficacy of religion resides in ritual. Hence our attention to baptisms, coming- (and leaving-!) of age ceremonies, circumcisions, weddings, and funerals. Mrs. Prevost's charisma came from her having grasped that women, even very smart, learned, and sensible ones, hunger for answers beyond what ritual can supply,

Customs exist, not because of any inherent good in them, but because they have always existed. Just as we detest the French, or complain about the damp, or grow primroses, or tour castles, adore cats and tea, cannot bear heat, and consider currants an exciting addition to a cake; these, and many more things besides, be they small or consequential; — marriages and children, titles, and family names, and the houses and the land, the property, the deeds, the legality of the whole; — these are the same as the rituals. Just so.

Alexander had been raised in different soil. He was intelligent enough to recognize overlap between his homegrown beliefs and our rarefied ones. Yet even now as Theodosia spoke to her flock, those who bore witness felt her words possessed their own magical efficacy, and sensed they were in the presence of someone quite monumental; destined, as it were, for history.

Now, it would be most kind to share the sermon Theodosia preached on that fine blue Sunday in June — about which everybody talked for so long that it became known as the Schuyler Sermon, and was written down in many places, and misquoted in still many more — but Alexander is our personage of interest here, and Alexander was disinclined to listen to it.

(‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Woman and this Man in holy Matrimony —’)

His first and chief concern was that Theodosia was very frightening to him, personally. For she had stared at him so disingenuously when Washington retrieved him on the Thursday, with her wide eyes and sensuously parted lips, that though the room had been close, Alexander shivered nonetheless. Then she remarked to Mrs. Church how a good man should not be too learned, for it made his wife lower in the estimation of others of her sex. This all was said in calm and quiet tones, and Alexander was meant, of course, to overhear. His anticipated lack of response was a test he was certain he had failed, and it was only because Angelica spoke over him that he shut up at all.

(‘Who giveth this Man to be married to this Woman?’)

Following supper he and Aaron Burr provided the evening’s musical entertainment. After she had listened to their duet, she praised Aaron most openly and ardently, while she compared Alexander’s singing voice (which was, truly, pleasant enough to hear) to that of a woodthrush in distress during a spring freshet, which, to Alexander’s beleaguered understanding, only sounded like a compliment.

So it was altogether impossible to sit quietly and focus on her words, and they passed over Alexander’s head like birds in flight. That was the first problem.

The second distraction was Aaron Burr. He was was seated while Alexander stood, uncomfortable, His face was perfectly composed, and yet it was so wondrously rapt, a sense of imminent beatification radiating from him, that Alexander found himself annoyed. This was for the simple reason that he preferred for Burr to be unhappy, as it made him feel better on the whole. This was the second problem.

(‘We beseech Their assistance with blessing this woman to be fruitful and to yield forth daughters, and for this Woman to provide for this Man in love, faithfulness, and honesty—’)

The third and most conspicuous problem, was that as a widower, the mysterious Mr. Washington was entitled to sit in the very front rows with the elder women and their husbands. While this afforded the man in question a tolerably comfortable view, it caused there to be many intervening heads — those of the ladies and their husbands, the young women and girls, and then the smallest boys — between his noble one and Alexander’s inquiring eyes.

(‘Husbands, submit yourselves unto your own wives, as God to Their Church, so let the husbands be to their own wives in every thing. And again we saith, let the husband see that he reverence his wife—’)

He himself was of course with the young unmarried men, who had been properly sequestered upstairs and so hidden from the sight of the worshipers, as their winsomeness was detraction as much as their pungent and distinctive smell. However on this occasion there was such a quantity of people that Alexander was forced to stand on the stair. As it was difficult for him to sit still even on the best of days, he found it still harder to stand that way.

(‘A pastor ought to have two voices: one, for gathering the sheep; and another, for warding off and driving away wolves and thieves. Scripture supplies her with the means of doing both. But what of prayer? It must arise from our needs, burdens given over to God, but also because of love for our fellow Women and their menfolk, that we feel their need as acutely as our own.’)

At several junctures did he peek his head above the partition or below the door, or the one right after the other, so that he might be bestowed with a more favorable aspect, and drew the silent ire of his neighbours for being a constant distraction from the sermon.

(‘To make intercession is the most powerful way to express our love. We are not to reflect on the wickedness of men but to look to the image of God in them, an image which, covering and obliterating their faults, an image which by its beauty and dignity, should allure them to our embraces. The father-sin then, the sin of Adam, and his motives to it, are the lively image of all the after-births of son, and the baits of sin for ever.’)

Mr. Washington had passed Alexander as he made his way inside the church, and even Peggy had thought his attire extraordinary enough to comment on it. ‘Have you ever seen a coat that bright and red, Alexander? I am sure I haven’t, not ever!’ and her voice carried so that the man himself turned to see who spoke thusly, and seeing Peggy standing next to Alexander, graced them with a very noble and sympathetic nod.

And then he was gone, as he retreated indoors after Mrs. and Mr. Church, followed, after a short lapse, by the tall Frenchman who had recently been tutor to John, and who did not bother to look at Alexander when he passed.

This snub rankled. ‘What a pompous—’ he began, and when Peggy looked up at him with widened eyes, he bit his tongue, choosing instead to practice French insults in his head. These had been gleaned from reading, and so were the kind of swears a man in an old-fashioned novel of the rustic sort might say, rather than the _patois_ of living people.

(Behold then in Passion, pain for our pleasure, and for our pride, shame and reproach. Behold Patience, enduring pain and death in War, which we find ourselves brought again to contemplate, the eternal enemy who again strikes against us at sea, lapping against our very shores —)

After the sermon was preached Angelica and John exited the church first. Many of the usual parishioners as well as the visitors were moved to stay a while longer in their pews, and engage in silent reflection on what they had just heard, and to gaze on Theodosia as she glided down the aisle behind the happy couple. The Schuyler and Church families reconvened just beyond the door, and in their turns received well wishes from those who streamed out of the church.

‘So handsome a husband you have found,’ said Nabby Adams to Angelica, who smiled at her most benevolently.

'Perhaps with due diligence your mother may procure you one of your own,’ she responded. Angelica offered Nabby her hand with its fine gold band to shake, and then, very deliberately, placed it on the small of John’s back. Nabby hurried through her remarks to him, and with a curtsey, dismissed herself before Angelica could do it for her.

‘— a very beautiful sermon,’ Mrs. Adams was meanwhile remarking to Mrs. Schuyler. ‘Though I am somewhat taken aback that you permitted such things to be said about France. That seems politically expedient, and surely a house of worship should be kept free of base motives?’

‘Are you engaged for the first dance tonight?’ John Laurens asked Eliza, which made her go very pink and his own pronounced ears to redden. ‘If you would be so kind as to do me the honour?’

 _'Félicitations et meilleurs vœux à vous deux pour votre mariage,'_ Monsieur Lafayette said to the happy couple, with an air of crisp precision.

‘Mr. Schuyler,’ said Mr. Washington, whose red coat indicated that he belonged to an elite military regiment, and which illuminated his complexion most agreeably. He bowed again. Very graceful, it was, as was the way he proceeded to clasp Alexander’s hand in his own. ‘I trust you are in better health today? You are well rested?’

Alexander’s tongue froze in his mouth, and his heart quite stopped at the touch. He hardly knew where to look. His sister, bless her, made excuses on his behalf. ‘You must forgive our Alexander, Mr. Washington. He has a very delicate constitution, as he was raised in the tropics. I am convinced that merely the heat of the crowded nave has rendered him so mute, but I assure you, he is most well and will be in attendance tonight at the assembly rooms.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ Mr. Washington said. He had not, during all this speech, dropped Alexander’s hand, though he released it with his next words. ‘I hope you will be well enough for the dances this evening? Perhaps I might engage you for the second set, after the ladies have had their fill?’

Alexander choked and through means that bypassed his conscious mind, managed, just barely, to nod.

He passed the remainder of the greetings and best wishes in a daze, which was just as well, for if he had been paying attention then he would have found something to annoy him. At last every hand had been shook and every baby kissed, and the wedding party called for the coaches which would carry them to their well-deserved rest before they rose again for the evening’s merriments.

‘It is such a beautiful day,’ Alexander remarked loudly, so that Eliza might catch his meaning.

‘So blue,’ she agreed, looking about at the sky. ‘Look, Peggy, how green the grass is.’

‘Mean you to walk, then?’ said Mr. Schuyler, and blew his nose into his handkerchief. ‘The carriages are already spoken for, and it will be a long night of dancing. You may be welcome of the ride as providing more time to rest.'

‘We will not tire,’ Peggy interjected, ‘it is but three miles to South End, and a fine day for it.’

‘Go on, Papa,’ Eliza said, as she waved the rest of the party goodbye. ‘A walk will do us three very good.’ And they trundled off while Aaron Burr remained behind with the Prevosts and the Churches, as they chatted on the church steps, a situation about which he appeared very smug.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Return to South End — Alexander's Intention — Eliza Speaks Sense — The Guide for Young Husbands_

As was their usual routine when walking together out of doors, Eliza held the parasol. Peggy skipped ahead, happy be free of the confines of the church and breathing fresh air. It had been close in the church, and in passing through the packed town square, Eliza and Alexander were uncharacteristically silent as they picked their way through the throng. Finally, as they reached the last draught-house past the hitching post and the town reverted to its usual mass and density, Eliza asked, ‘And what did you think of the sermon?’

Alexander, who had many opinions about the sermon although he had not listened to it, here chose diplomacy. It was a calculated decision rather than an artless one; Eliza had not been in real charity with him since the incident with the strawberries, and though he could hardly bear see her cross, we are unlikely to catch him making apology first (or, for that matter, ever). ‘It seemed very well spoken,’ he said after a pause that lasted to the very edge of town, ‘and it is obvious that Mrs. Prevost knows her subject very well. I caught all manner of allusions during her elocution, though I lack her distinct knowledge of Scripture and its nuances. She preached very eloquently on the whole, and everybody seemed very persuaded with her argument.’

‘Did you?’ Eliza said, as they crossed beneath the city gate and then entered into the enclosed common pasture where the townspeople grazed their modest holdings of livestock. A few scraggly sheep lifted their heads and, chewing placidly, watched them as they passed. ‘Pay attention, I mean. I rather suspect that your thoughts were very much occupied elsewhere. With our elegant widower, perhaps?’

Alexander held his tongue, for this juncture saw Peggy dart back to them with report of an interesting goat just ahead that must be new, for she had not seen it before. They walked a bit, and encountered the goat in the flesh, and remarked on its colours. Peggy remained with them until something else caught her interest and she flew away again, yellow dress streaming out behind her like a sunbeam, dirt streaked across its hem.

When she was well out of earshot Alexander burst forth with his observation, for Eliza had astutely guessed the crux of the matter. ‘Have you ever seen such a man, Eliza? I have read about our militias and their enlisted men, but of course in books, merely in books; the flesh is another manner of inquiry altogether. They described them in such, such — vagaries that I assumed they were of the same fettle as, well perhaps not _me,_ but John Laurens, or even Reynolds. Strong and destined for battle—’ and here he trailed off, the sense memory of the soldier’s most muscular arms wrapped around his waist enough to make his vision blur as they traipsed on through the field. Heavens, how would engage with him for the length of a dance, a half an hour at bare minimum, without loss of his footing?

‘Alexander,’ Eliza reproached at his effusiveness. ‘He is a widower, and a most tragic one at that. And a man of honour, to boot, who risks his life for our great nation. It does you very ill to speak of him so unguardedly. I hope you will be in better form tonight at the ball. Are you already spoken for?’

‘Only for the second dance of the first set,’ he told her, as they passed through another gate, making sure to shut it carefully behind them. Once Alexander had forgotten to close it and the sheep had spilled stupidly out into the lane. The old farmer whose sheep they were was unamused, and the next time Alexander passed the lane, he had to duck and hurry quickly along to avoid the bruised crabapples that were chucked at his head. Since that incident, Alexander was very conscientious of the way the peg fitted itself to the latch. ‘I am required,' he moaned, 'to dance with Mrs. Prevost, and I expect that will be very tedious indeed. I am much more interested in hearing about the garrison that is stationed in Calais —’

‘But, Alexander, of course you will dance with Mrs. Prevost!’ she said with acute agitation. ‘And you will make conversation — a polite amount, and inquire after her health, but nothing too personal — and compliment her dancing, and show attentions such as a fiance would! To refuse her would be selfish and rude beyond repair, and well, even if she is not the woman you might wish her to be, she is—’ and she paused for breath, as this was becoming a very long speech, ‘—she is, after all a woman of stature, and learned, with good position. If I were you, I would count myself fortunate to have secured her interest, and would hope that an ardent attachment would be forthcoming. And Mother would be so pleased to see you on good behaviour, think of that!' 

In reality, Eliza wished to see Alexander settled on someone — or _someones_ — in a timely enough fashion to allow her own engagement. She would be held back in the family order until he was spoken for and married off. An alliance with the Laurens estate was her heart’s wish, but that depended on Alexander doing as he was told. If her tender heart and her mother’s calculations coincided with Alexander’s eventual acquiescence, then she might find herself in possession of a most perfect union. (Eliza, as we can deduce from her words and deeds, was utterly capable of being selfish in her desires.) 

‘She has engaged me to stand up with her,’ said Alexander, his voice rising and quickening in tempo along with his vexation, ‘and of course I will do as I am bidden. But—’ and here he chewed his lower lip, a nervous habit he had when he wished to argue but had to refrain for political reasons. Of course Eliza’s words cut him to the quick, and argument bubbled beneath his surface, a mineral geyser, or molten red lava, that was prone to burst forth at any moment.

‘Let us have peace,’ Alexander said, for — despite his excitement regarding Mr. Washington, his mind was nonetheless fixed on an imminent departure. He had packed a bag which he had already stashed very carefully in the woods, in anticipation of stealing away that very night. As the party reached his apex he would slip out under the guise of using the necessary, or fixing his flyaway hair, and be long gone by daybreak. It would work out very neatly, all told, he reasoned. Mrs. Prevost would undoubtedly swoop upon Burr in his absence for he appealed to her evident vanity. Alexander would gain his freedom, and, more importantly, avoid becoming husband to a harpy.

So instead he declared with even intonation, ‘This is a happy day and a most momentous occasion.’

‘Of course,’ she smiled, happy that he had seen good sense. They rounded the bend and South End came into view on their left. ‘The marriage, and the reception! It will be a wonderful party, and I am most excited at the prospect of a dance. I have so few opportunities for it.’

‘Not at all, sister,’ he said, with a very naughty smile. ‘Angelica and John leave tomorrow for their honeymoon and thence to London and their new residence. We will have peace and quiet at home, at long last!’

And though it was a fairly unkind thing to have said, and a wicked one, Eliza nevertheless laughed.

‘It is true,’ she said, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘But all that activity means,’ and she lowered her voice, as if the cows and crickets might overhear their scandalous gossip, ‘is that he has been most diligent in his studies. John has applied himself and deserves approbation, though, I confess, I would prefer not to have firsthand report of his aptitude, or least, have it perhaps less close at hand.’

‘Did Monsieur Lafayette tutor him in this as well?’ he said in a tone of knowing jest, and Eliza’s hand flew to cover her mouth at the shock of the words.

‘Alexander! He has Mr. Beeton’s _Guide for Young Husbands_ , I am sure, the same as every other man is gifted with on his eighteenth birthday.’

‘But on whom does he practice?’ Alexander wondered to the dairy barn. ‘A manual is a technical sort of book, like a text of economics, or beekeeping, or botany.’

‘Or a Latin workbook,’ Eliza grumbled. She detested Latin; luckily, Alexander copied her lessons to supplement his own studies (he could _fare l’amore_ in Italian; this was as close to the Romans as he was permitted to get) and fixed her errors when he copied them over. Ms. Godwin was always taken aback by her perfect marks on her workbook exercises, when she could barely recite the irregular pluperfect. ‘‘How will you be a doctor if you do not have Latin,’’ she mimicked her tutor’s words, with a sour face that did not become her at all. ‘A doctor! Latin! The very thought makes my skin crawl.’

‘You will be a fine medic,’ Alexander reassured her, for she had a very calming presence, and that is also a necessary consideration for a doctor.

‘As it were,’ she said, and deftly changed the subject back to the previous line. ‘Did Mother give you one?’ A copy of the _Manual,_ I mean.

‘No,’ he said, for he knew that they existed, and had caught a glimpse of the copy Laurens read sometimes during tutorials, very openly, with his feet upon the desk. ‘And for men such as myself, we must make do without guidebooks.’

‘But that makes a great deal of sense, does it not?’ she asked. ‘For the first husband has the wisdom of experience; he knows his wife better than anyone, and surely who better to teach the second husband than him?’

Alexander grew hot under the collar. He wished to tell her what he had been thinking about, which was not the technical knowledge every man was expected to know and perform without any thought to his own pleasure. Of that he understood the clear and obvious purpose; and on the very rare occasion when a man might gain satisfaction within his wife he was meant to observe the strictest timetables as to her cycle. If a child was wished for, then they would, and often, but the remainder of the time — well, reader, you will catch our meaning.

Instead of ruminating on his future duties as husband to a woman, Alexander had been contemplating, as indeed he had all throughout Mrs. Prevost’s sermon, how matters might take place when there were two men who were absent of women. He said this out loud, almost to himself, but Eliza caught the tail of it, and simply shook her head. ‘It matters so little!’ she effused. ‘Everybody knows that is — well, let us refrain from calling it _impossible_ — but why should anybody need to practice? There is naught to learn between two men, if you want my opinion of the matter.’

They had just reached the front stoop. Peggy was nowhere to be seen, but she would return in time for the party. Eliza lowered the parasol, closed it, and plastered on a smile; —for it was her sister’s especial day, and if she was caught frowning, Eliza would never hear the end of it from Mr. Schuyler, who wanted little more than for his three girls to love one another as much as he did each one of them, with his very full and generous heart. And with that, they crossed the threshold of the house and went inside.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Preparations for the Ball — Provincial Gossip — A Dance with Theodosia — A Prospective Partner_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to blanket warn for this chapter, insofar as the misandry and threat of violence are pretty real once Theodosia enters the scene. The conversational part before that is innocuous and should be safe. Choose wisely, know your comfort level.

A degree of unease trailed Alexander as he stumbled through the rest of his day. He was without appetite at luncheon, agitated during tea-time, and profoundly frustrated when he at last shut the door to his little room. Under the guise of having a short, refreshing sleep he bought himself some time, for Aaron Burr had not returned to the house and he was alone. As Alexander intended to steal away that very night, it would have done him good to actually close his eyes for a bit in preparation — but he suffered from such an excess of apprehension, in addition to his regular state of near-perpetual excitement — that he merely tossed to and fro beneath the bedclothes until it was time to bathe.

‘You look very fetching,’ Eliza said, later, as they stood before the glass and brushed out their hair together. ‘I think this shade of green suits you very well. Have you lost weight since Christmas? I seem to recall that waistcoat being somewhat strained on that occasion, but now it fits you perfectly.’

‘Mulligan took it in for me,’ Alexander said, with a downward glance. ‘He is a superb tailor, though of course he prefers to sew ladies’ garments. And you look very well yourself. I should expect that John Laurens will be the luckiest man there!’ he effused, with a twinge of regret to think that this would be the last time he and Eliza would be together like this. Oh, and Peggy, of course. He cleared his throat and then asked, with an airy tone, ‘Now, will you wear your hair up or down?’

‘It looks very good up,’ said Peggy from her place on the bed, where she was lying flat on her back with her legs pointed at the ceiling, and lowering them slowly one at a time, to the bed and then back up again. ‘No, I think I prefer it down. Up? Oh, bother.’

‘Some of each, perhaps?’ said Eliza, gathering the top half of her hair with her hands and turning this way and that to check her profile.

‘Both, then,’ agreed Alexander, for it was quite becoming in that style, and went in search of the pins.

 

 

~*~

 

Conversation sparked and flared in all four corners of the grand room. Every person of report was there, be they from Monmouth society, or from places to the east, and south, and south-east. Old acquaintance met new, and everybody was in fine spirits at the prospect of a good repast, excellent wine, and the possibility of a dance with someone new, exciting, and exceedingly attractive.

‘I will stand up with whoever will have me,’ said Mr. Washington, very good-naturedly, with a lovely bow to Mrs. Schuyler and Mrs. Church. He quite drew the attention of the room, as he had changed from his daytime regimental attire into an evening ensemble of purest ivory; every piece, from cravat to frock coat to trousers, was of the same pale colour, only interrupted by the deep buffed black of his boots and the short sword buckled at his waist with silver. The effect of the whole was, Alexander thought, quite magnificent. Most of the ladies present would have agreed with this sentiment, for it was objectively, on the whole, true.

 _‘Nous nous connaissons depuis la petite enfance,’_ answered Monsieur Lafayette in response to Mrs. Adams’ question of how long he had been acquainted with the handsome widower. Washington, whose Christian name was George, presented an exceptional figure of manhood, with decorous manners and a sense of uprightness that practically emanated from his person. Mr. Washington detested swearing, personal slovenliness, and (most loathsome of all) gossip. This of course did not stop the others in attendance from providing a great deal of idle gossip which, along with a plentiful sideboard, is undoubtedly the principal attraction at any a provincial party.

‘—the poor woman, such a _dreadful_ way to die!’ remarked a lady in a green gown with a very low-cut decolleté. ‘Was there no medic stationed with them equipped to handle such things? I find that to be in extremely bad form.’

‘—such a state of affairs may be pressed upon us again, if the Parliamentary bill comes to a vote,’ added a younger woman, whose elaborately plaited hair was adorned with all colour of ribbons. She had only recently taken on her first husband, and detested parties, as a rule, unless she was very drunk.

‘—how long ago was it?’ asked the green lady’s second husband, a curious looking fellow with wolf-pale eyes, who was prone to interrupting.

‘Fourteen years, almost to the month this past April,’ answered the first husband, whose thick black beard was shot through with gray. ‘Around the time of the last great sea engagement with the French, if I am not mistaken.’

‘And he keeps the estate?’ asked the ribbon lady’s husband — about whom very little could be noted except that his fortunate wife was always kept in a state of moderate and tolerable drunkenness at all dinners, society events, concerts, and parties, and after they had returned home he would fix her a strong cup of tea and rub her feet.

‘—Mount Vernon,’ replied the green lady, nodding. ‘It belonged to her mother, of course, who was a maker of maps and surveying instruments, which provided a good enough income, but they came into money with her royal appointment. _So_ beloved by Her Majesty, of course, it is no wonder that General Washington found such favour and advanced so far.’

‘You were telling us about the house?’ prompted her first husband, seeing that she had lost the thread of her conversation.

‘Yes!’ she recalled, and laid a grateful hand on his arm. ‘Thank you, my dear. It is called Mount Vernon, though of course the house sits very far to the east of here, practically in _Calais_ , though obviously on this side of the Channel, and it seems to me that the mountains they have in that part of the land are but mere molehills compared to ours — the word mountain is _most_ unsuitable, unlike our high peaks whence the signal fires blaze so brightly and—’ but here her husband coughed, with another gentle reminder, and so she finished the speech in a rush. ‘All told I believe it is a rather poor house, small and drafty, but a with a great deal of good land, arable; productive land, and with a favorable position near the waterways for trade—’

‘—how much does he have? Money, I mean.’ asked the second husband, who was glared at by the first until he lowered his eyes with mumbled apology.

‘—I have heard rumour that it is around four? Or perhaps five thousand from the grounds?’ said the woman with plaits, who was by now on her third glass of sparkling wine. ‘And he must draw some income from the military, though I do not know in what amount.’

‘And he never remarried?’ asked the considerate husband of the party assembled around him. ‘What a ghastly life, to be bereft of a woman’s company for the rest of one’s earthly days! Without a woman; —well, I would be unable to bear it, my love, if you were to be parted from my sight for more than a few hours at the most.’ Everyone tutted at the sweet sentiment expressed therein, and then returned to their speculations regarding the military widower, who very easily possessed the finest figure there. Certainly the cut of his trousers was most illuminating — though the women were disappointed at his decision to wear boots, and so they were deprived of a good view of his calves, which were, in reality, extremely shapely and altogether enchanting — for he was a horseman.

‘He could have.’ said the woman in braids with a lowered voice, ‘Remarried, that is. And been remarried to a woman, I mean of course a different woman, by virtue of being a widower. It does happen, from time to time, that a woman dies, though of course almost never in such a, well — such a gruesome manner. Though his advanced age would have been a black mark against his prospects of fertility, all told.’

‘And what of the Marquis?’ asked the curious second husband, as he looked upon the tall, elegant Monsieur Lafayette and Mr. Washington, who were engaged in a hushed conversation near the punch bowl and the sherbet ices.

‘That,’ said the green lady, with a sucked-in purse of her lips. ‘Of that I have no direct report.’

And then to a body they turned, as the band warmed up for the first dance, and the women and their first husbands took their places amongst the company. Alexander watched them from his position on the sidelines as Theodosia danced with her husband. All told they made a handsome couple. Mr. Prevost was an accomplished, if stiff, dancer, and his wife led him very gracefully about the room. She had spoken for Alexander in the second dance, which took place at the time in the evening when the young men were very fresh, and pleasant to look upon.

It should be stated that by this juncture, Alexander thought himself in the clear. Mrs. Prevost seemed to have transferred her affections to Aaron Burr, who was most solicitous to her prior to the dancing. He had fetched her spring water and a variety of delicacies to eat at her leisure, or to ignore as she wished: red grapes chilled in a bath of ice; white asparagus blanketed with a sauce of dill; a sip of cool tomato soup served in a crystal glass the size of a thimble; a small custard tart with a blackened shimmer of charred sugar across its top.

The band struck up another merry tune, and the same women would then dance with their second husbands, or the first, (if they had but the one), or another, (if they were courting), which is what Alexander was pressed to do now, and so stood up with Mrs. Prevost, and took her outstretched hand. He bowed, she curtsied, and the dance began.

‘Well.’ Mrs. Prevost declared after an interval, wherein it was established that Alexander danced better than she had come to expect, given his fragile constitution and reputed clumsiness. It would be a stretch to dub him graceful, but his movements had a certain sinewy and wholly sensual quality that would be very appealing in a mate. ‘About what shall we converse? We have ample time, I should think, to get to know one another a little better?’

Alexander’s chest tightened, but he led with a pleasant subject which was always acceptable; that of _ses vêtements_. ‘Your dress is very fine,’ he said as she spun him, ‘is it Mr. Prevost’s own design?’ And here he occasioned to admire the high collar of intricate black lace which encircled her delicate throat, from which such persuasive words emanated and entrapped the whole, it seemed, of the world.

‘Very like a man,’ she chuckled, walking him backwards, ‘to pay attention to such frippery. However, as you have asked, yes, James has a steady hand with the needle, and he understands what suits a woman of my position. I prefer black above all other colours.’

‘Yes,’ Alexander agreed smoothly, as she clasped and then released him. He circled her and then, when they were relatively fixed in their positions, he brought forth the subject of Aaron Burr, whose case he had resolved to plead herewith. ‘Madam,’ he began most ardently, ‘I trust you have had opportunity to see the fine handiwork of our Mr. Burr. By all accounts he is at least a good a stitcher as Mr. Prevost, and in fact may even be made of finer mettle, for his focus, his aptitude, his eye for detail are absolutely unparalleled! And of course, in addition to that most estimable quality, he is certainly a handsome man — most pious! and learned, but, as I think you have already pointed out elsewhere, not _too_ learned, and mostly in Scripture, and music, and drawing — the sort talents which befit a man, for the benefit of his earthly soul, and in the Hereafter, but also reflect favourably on his household — and, if I dare say so, his housekeeping is a wonder to behold! It will do you and Mr. Prevost credit. And he will be such an asset at the vicarage, as — if you’ll forgive my boldness, of course, I mean no harm by the observation — the current Mr. Prevost does not seem to enjoy society as much as he perhaps once did, or maybe never did? This I cannot answer fully at present, as I have only just made his acquaintance, but I am sure you will find that he and Mr. Burr —’

‘Alexander,’ said Theodosia, stern and cold as if he was already pledged to her. She leaned in very close to his collar. This action might have seemed overt at a regular country ball, but this was a celebration, and manners loosened enough for her to rasp against Alexander’s ear, ‘I might, if it suits me, choose to prefer you both. You are,’ and she continued, clearly relishing Alexander’s inability to react, ‘old friends are you not? Bedmates? Surely there is a history between the two of you. You know one another?’

Alexander’s mouth gaped wide open at this suggestion, which might have been true for other bedmates, had they found themselves asleep next to any person other than Aaron Burr.

So instead he retorted, very demure, just as Eliza had instructed him to be, ‘I beg your pardon, Madam, but I believe you forget yourself. That is hardly a thing Mr. Burr would permit, nor I, no matter what report you may have heard.’

She pulled away; lovely, frightening and said, ‘And why should it not be permitted? I have scoured the legal books and seen no common law to the contrary. In the old Scriptures and books of Mesopotamia, Thebes, we see women, queens as a rule, with three, six, why — a dozen husbands! If she could keep them in comfort and see to their health, why should it not be so with us?’

At this Alexander looked aghast, and his eyes whirled about the room for something, anything else to fix upon as object. The principal people caught his attention. Eliza stood against the far wall with John Laurens very close at hand, as if they were sharing a great intimacy, and he hoped that they were, and that it was better than the one he was presently hearing. Angelica had her jealous arm wrapped around her husband’s slim waist, a cluster of friends and hangers-on surrounding them, as she told them about their upcoming plans to visit Bath. Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Schuyler had danced but once with their men, and now were seated next to one another along the wall exchanging heated, insincere smiles. The widower Washington was now to be seen dancing with a pretty married woman who wore a silly purple hat, and who appeared to be enjoying herself immensely. Washington, Alexander observed, wore a faint expression that could be interpreted, loosely, as a smile, but he did not join his partner in her laughter.

‘ _Three_ husbands?’ asked Alexander. ‘Whatever will you do with all of us?’

‘Why, whatever I wish, of course,’ responded Theodosia sweetly. She licked her lips as she looked hungrily at his, and though rage coiled in his stomach like a viper, Alexander still found it in him to blush.

‘And if you grow tired of one?’ he said, with a sinking feeling, for he already knew how she would answer.

They went down the dance again as she pondered this question, and though she was very far from being a good woman, at least she was an honest one. Alexander respected this facet of her character: it was a quality they shared. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘You know the laws, and have some notions of the customs, though such matters should not concern you directly, at your age. All you must do is behave, and do exactly as I tell you, and we will all be, I think, quite happy. But if you continue to insist on this inappropriate education, or speak to me out of turn, then you should know it would take very little for me to convince a judge that you were no longer sustaining me as you should, in your role as husband, or,’ and she whirled him around so that he lifted off onto his toes, weightless, ‘—that you had made certain demands on my physical person which are only meant for reproduction of the species and the continuance of our society.’

Alexander was strangely grateful for her presence, then, for the firm hand on the base of his spine which held him erect, her towering posture which forced him to mimic it even as his insides melted. ‘Or perhaps I shall tell her that you made the most gross and vile remarks, and attempts, yes, even those. In the hallways, the dining room, the vestry, even.’

‘I would do no such thing,’ said Alexander, altogether powerless in his fury.

‘It matters not,’ she smiled gaily, enjoying his impotence. ‘Who will they believe, my dearest Alexander? You, a mere man, and an orphan into the mix, or me? A woman of renown, with God on her side?’

‘You,’ poor Alexander whispered, for it was the truth. He closed his eyes as the world spun on its axis. His stomach lurched, so he opened them again. Theodosia was looking at him as if she had won a game he had not signed up to play.

‘And quite,’ she said, satisfied with his cowed response. But one must remember that Alexander was not only a Faucette by birth, nor simply a Schuyler by adoption; he was a Hamilton, as well, and Scots men are known for their brave stupidity in the face of insurmountable odds.

‘I would not stand for it,’ he said, defiantly. It was his best characteristic, defiance, but also a very tiring one. ‘I would find a way to argue against you. If it took a day in court—’

‘And who will defend you?’ she asked, acknowledging the others in the room with a slight tip of her pointed chin as she named them. ‘Mrs. Angelica Schuyler is shrewd, but wholly untrained in legal matters. She wishes to stay in good stead with her mother-in-law, and it so happens that Mrs. Bethany Church is a very devout member of my flock. I know that in this, Lady Catherine will take my side, for she knows how intransigent you can be, and it will take but the merest push to convince her of your longstanding depravity,’ continued Theodosia, as they went down the dance again and she touched one elegant finger to his chin. 

‘I will find a solicitor,’ he said, jerking his head away. His throat was very hoarse when he spoke. ‘Or represent myself if it comes to that. There are books; I have a little Latin. Yes, Madam, I can learn the law as well as any woman.’

‘Sweet child!’ she laughed, with a cold glint in her eye. ‘How I would love to watch you try. It would be most entertaining, like a dog that has learnt a circus trick. And if, by some unfortunate series of events I am not granted a divorce, though we both know how easily I could cast you off, then there are options. The army, for one, or—’ and she let her voice trail to a whisper; — for those other places, so horrible in the fact of their mere existence, need not even be spoken out loud in order to quell a man into chastened obedience. 

Alexander was silent, for a change. She went on in this vein. ‘What satisfaction it will give me, Alexander, to break you of these wretched habits. Mrs. Schuyler has done you a very great disservice by allowing you to have knowledge far above your station. Now, the same has not besmirched your fellow ward. Mr. Burr is very content with his lot in life, and practices patience every day. I know he will be a model to you ever after, in this.’ The dance was coming to an end. Theodosia allowed Alexander to step away, and in his doing so, she openly took stock of his fine figure, noting the generous mouth, the delicate strength of his hands, the pertness of his backside.

‘Fetch me Aaron Burr,’ she told Alexander, and dropped her hands from him. His body sung with relief at being free of her embrace, as if he were a fly that had been about to be devoured by a spider but had, through a remarkable stroke of luck, somehow got free. ‘I am tired of your impudence.’

‘Good evening,’ Madam, he said, with the fastest bow that could be considered polite, and then scurried off to find Mr. Burr as bidden. 

‘She is asking for you,’ he said to Aaron, who went at once to her side, and kissed her hand. The musicians held until Theodosia was reunited with her young protégé and they took to the floor. Alexander breathed a hearty sigh of relief and relaxed incrementally, though nervous energy still coursed through his veins. He was about to settle his agitation with a much-deserved glass of wine, when a deep voice — familiar, shivery, dark as treacle stirred into black tea — bloomed rich and full near his ear.

‘Mr. Schuyler,’ said Washington, a crystal glass of fizzy pink wine held almost delicately between his thick fingers. He offered it to Alexander. ‘You must be in need of refreshment after that turn about the room. Very graceful, I thought. Shall we sit together until it is our turn?’

Alexander took the wine, gratefully, and they sat.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Young Ladies and Men — Alexander's Dance with Mr. Washington — The Schuyler Sisters — An Invitation_

The distance to the chair, when he lowered himself into it, seemed very far to traverse, for his knees buckled from the exertion of remaining calm — _mostly_ — during his encounter with Theodosia Prevost. The woman in question now had complete command of Aaron Burr, and; — everybody remarked, they made a very handsome couple as the band played on. Now that Alexander was privy to her nefarious designs upon them both, he was even more steadfastly resolved to run away. If he intended to be absent before the Schuylers departed the ball then he would have to leave at once, as soon as he finished with the widower seated at his side. He shook with the thought of his plans coming to fruition. Might he tell Aaron Burr as well, so that the two wards could steal away under cover of darkness and begin life anew as free men? Or would he choose the expected route of selfishness?

In any case, he was quite shaken, and his outsized pride very bruised. As he held the glass of wine which Mr. Washington proffered and lifted it to his lips, his hands trembled so that he splashed it all down his front, down the fine brocade waistcoat of of green and gold, which had until recently been too large on him, and further down, onto his trousers, where it landed cold and unwelcome on his lap.

‘Oh!’ he exclaimed, immediately ashamed at his own clumsiness, and startling in his seat.

‘It is no matter. Please, allow me,’ said Mr. Washington, who stood briskly and crossed the room in search of an antidote, a liquid that would prevent the pink wine from setting, and staining Alexander’s clothing. As he waited for him to return, Alexander lifted the glass (now deprived of approximately a third its contents) to his mouth, and drank deeply. He licked his lips and tasted salt. The gesture left them red and shining; unaware of the effect this movement had on everybody who saw him, he did it again. There was perspiration on the back of his neck, causing his collar to chafe against the wetness. He drank until the glass was emptied, and held the goblet in his hand as he watched from the perspective of an observer rather than a participant, which was a sensible, comfortable place to be.

The young women had their turn at the dance now, and this was, for them, a very exciting time. Any who wished could dance, married or no, as long as she had come of age according to her calendar. In practice this meant that girls as young as ten, eleven, or twelve would dance, more as a joke than anything else, with young men who had easily passed over the cusp of their twenties. This was, in any case, explicitly not meant as a prelude to courtship — for no woman would _ever_ be expected to marry so young! — especially when she had not yet completed her education and established herself in her profession and society; — but it was a subtle way of reminding everybody of the inflexible and rigid rules of nature: that women mature differently than do men, and that a young lady of seventeen may possess an infinite amount more of sensibility, wisdom, and patience than even a man whose years numbered two score and two, which was the age of the white-clad widower named George Washington, who was at this very moment returning with a cloth napkin, a cup of sparkling water with a cut bit of lemon floating in it, and an entirely new (and full) bottle of pink fizzy wine.

He rested his fingers upon the cup in Alexander’s hand, and Alexander released it into his care. Mr. Washington was most solicitous in his attentions to Alexander’s costume, and with pointed observations, allowed him to blot himself dry, and rub the cut lemon over the stains, and dab at that fresh wetness with his personal handkerchief, which, when Alexander tried to return it to him, Mr. Washington folded it back into his hand and clasped it there for a long moment. ‘Keep it,’ he said, very warmly. ‘You may have need of it later, I suspect.’

‘Thank you,’ Alexander said, prim as could be, and then accepted more wine, which he did not on this occasion spill, though he did drink it rather too quickly, and it made his chest feel very floaty.

His lap, despite being well-blotted, was altogether damp and cold. As those of you who have access to our _Manual for Wives_ will no doubt be aware, cold — whether in the form of a compress or cloth, or, in more dire circumstances, a bath of ice — is the usual application in these matters. However even that might not have calmed dear Alexander from his agitation. (To be perfectly frank, by now we all know that this tended to be his regular state of affairs, and so from this point forward, it will no longer bear specific mention by us or any other person, save the one whose eventual concern it will turn out to be.) 

Alexander found that Mr. Washington was happy to sit quietly beside him, and did not have any expectation of being amused, though he made many passing comments on the dance, and the very pleasant state of Monmouth society, and expressed his unwavering admiration for all three of Alexander’s sisters, and praised their dancing most freely. His conversation was entirely correct, if minimal. 

During the third set of dances, as we know, women exchange partners repeatedly. It makes as fine a way as any to allow permutations of couples to join and unband over the course of three-quarters of an hour, much better than any system devised prior or since. Eliza, Alexander noted with pleased satisfaction, was very deftly leading John Laurens through a cascade of upraised hands, followed by a girl of fifteen and a man of twenty, and then, at the end of the line, Peggy clasped the dainty hand of her partner, the son of a medic from two towns over. The man himself was glowing; she was cross, and trying her best to avoid mangling his feet with her own.

Alexander’s lap was unfortunately, still damp by the time the young ladies and men took their seats. Mr. Washington stood and offered up his hand, the palm facing up, and Alexander placed his own hand, palm facing down, atop it, and kept it there as they made their way to the floor with the other male couples. He felt strangely calm and at ease, despite his trousers. It was an unusual sort of feeling, for unlike Mrs. Prevost, Mr. Washington neither clamped nor gripped at him; their hands merely rested, the one upon the other, and yet Alexander felt himself guided, very carefully and thoughtfully, into a position in the middle of the group. That was for the best, for it did not single them out as being of great importance, nor did it relegate them to the poorer positions at the end of the line.

Now for some of the women present, the sight of the older men dancing with the younger was merely one turn in the regular progression of things, in this as in all else: by gender, age, and status. It proceeded as a matter of course, and they paid it little mind. For others, it was an occasion of the greatest promise and excitement, when certain movements might be speculated upon, or if the particular ways that a pairing fitted together provided a welcome diversion for the women, some of whom (such as Mrs. Prevost), cast a most careful eye over it. Mr. Prevost, he noticed, had engaged Aaron Burr for the third set, and they seemed well-suited for one another; of a height, both immaculately clad and neat about their persons: smiling, spare, blank. 

The two men bowed to one another. Washington was very graceful, and Alexander did his best to copy his grace.

The band played.

Men danced together, old and young, as they do. The women watched, some with interest, a few with boredom, some with lasciviousness, a few with offhand speculation.

Alexander was used to observing everything which went on around him and remembering it in stunning detail. However, for the whole of this set, Mr. Washington’s hands were placed upon him, so lightly but with such grave presence that he could not but be cognizant of their attendant weight. On at least two points on his body they touched, hands and lower down, which set his waist aflame and sent a tingle all the way up to his shoulder blades. They were quite close, a hair closer, if one were to examine the matter carefully, than they strictly needed to be, and Alexander, who was good at dancing but bad, on the whole, at being led, performed so beautifully that he attracted the attention of even Mrs. Prevost. She was watching them with intent, as we can see but Alexander could not, for he was entirely preoccupied, which is just as it should be for a man at his age, who has found himself the sole object of attention with a most becoming partner.

‘You dance very well,’ Mr. Washington allowed, and Alexander, who was neither prone to receiving compliments nor to accepting them, did both, warmth suffusing his fine cheeks.

‘I can assure you, Mr. Washington,’ said Alexander, very pertly, ‘that the success of one’s dancing is entirely dependent on one’s choice of partner.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Washington, and was silent for a good while. His hands were very warm, Alexander thought. Even with it being a humid summer night, he appeared not to perspire at all, merely to glow from within, while he himself was, most unbecomingly, damp with anxious sweat all beneath his clothes. ‘I noted that you danced very well with the vicar,’ the widower said, then added, ‘You looked most becoming on her arm, Mr. Schuyler, if you will permit the compliment.’

‘A charming couple, we will make, to be sure,’ Alexander retorted almost immediately, and then, sensate of his outlandish words, clamped his mouth shut in horror.

If Mr. Washington was shocked, his countenance showed no evidence of it. ‘I heard no remark to the contrary,’ he said. Though he had circulated, his disinclination for gossip had already circulated before him, so his interlocutors took up the subjects of the weather, his journey, the feast, and the honeymoon of the happy couple, and thus kept their opinions of Alexander and Theodosia to themselves.

The dance continued; the two men focused only on one another. They moved in tandem, and the tenor of their dance meant that it was through movement, rather than words, that they communicated.

‘They look very handsome together,’ said Angelica to her sisters, presently. ‘Yes,’ said Peggy, with a curious expression on her face, ‘Well, imagine that! I suppose they do!’

‘Mr. Burr seems to be enjoying himself as well,’ Eliza said, very freely to Angelica. The eldest Schuyler would be departing on the morrow, and her feelings on the matter were conflicted. On the one hand, Angelica would be gone and the house would, as we can all vividly recollect, be once more at peace. Mrs. Catherine Schuyler would depart soon thereafter for town, and the house would settle back into its placid, languid summer state, minus a few of its principal inhabitants. In a month’s time they might all visit the seaside, and the parents of their parents. Though they now lived independently of one another they remained the greatest of friends, and were often come-at-table, in fours or pairs, where they ate supper quite early, and strolled, slowly, arms interlinked, along the boardwalk, and were happy to be free of work, household matters, and the duties of child rearing.

‘Indeed he does,’ Angelica agreed, passing a little wave to John, who was doing a good deed by dancing with her father. This gave her mother a chance to escape his doting attentions and confer with other important women in the room regarding political matters. John was, by all accounts, a perfect husband, and, Angelica was coming to understand, a decent man beneath his impeccable manners, polished looks, and graceful charm.

She was frightened, or if not frightened, then anxious, about her new position in life; the house they would take in town, which she would be sole mistress of, and meeting the constituents of her new home parish, and very soon, if she won her election, trying for a daughter. The prospects intimidated her: even Angelica, most spectacular among women and daughters; she envied Eliza.

Eliza was frightened, or, if not frightened, then anxious, that Angelica would immanently leave, and then her mother; —even though her father knew so much regarding South End, and the incomes from it, and about all matters of household economy, that as the eldest daughter in residence, a great responsibility settled around her like a thick fur mantle, and she wished to run free, in the snow, without a coat; she envied Peggy.

Peggy was neither frightened nor anxious but was perfectly content, save for the thought that she might soon be parted from Alexander, who was, after Eliza, her closest confidante, and a true friend, as our friends from childhood often are, and know our most honest selves, through and through, for children lack guile and dissimulation.

While we have left them, we can say that Alexander and Mr. Washington, and Aaron and Mr. Prevost, drew the most attention in the room. Both were handsomely paired for the time being, and many improper insinuations were made by a few of the coarser ladies, who of course deserve chastisement for their unseemly behaviour, but we shall not rebuke them, for we are paying undue attention as well. Mrs. Prevost kept her words to herself, but her thoughts were of a cast altogether unholy. On this we shall penetrate no further, for the sake of our own enjoyment, and return, instead, to the dance.

Alexander had brought forth in the interval at least a dozen subjects upon which he wished to touch, and his mind flew over them so quickly, like a bumblebee in a haze of summer flowers, that Mr. Washington hardly had a chance to catch his breath before Alexander flew on to the next one, without so much as acknowledging his partner’s conversation. It was quite rude, but he was excited.

‘How did you come to be here?’ Alexander asked, very openly.

‘By the Severn road,’ said Mr. Washington, gently, ‘on a horse, with whom I believe you are somewhat acquainted.’

Alexander remembered the horse. It was an unpleasant sort of memory for a variety of reasons. The horse, though, was the main part of it.

‘Yes, of course,’ he responded, ‘I remember.’

‘You are most curious, Mr. Schuyler,’ said his partner with a gentle rebuke. ‘I am afraid my life is rather less glamourous than my presence here would have you believe.’

‘And I assure you, Mr. Washington,’ said Alexander as the dance came to its conclusion, ‘that you are the most excitement, or the person of greatest interest, to come to Monmouth in a very long while!’

‘Ah,’ answered Mr. Washington, and though the music had stopped and the crowd was clapping, his hand remained, light yet heavy, upon Alexander’s waist. ‘Perhaps I might have the honour of calling upon you tomorrow, then? I am ready to answer your questions in more detail, if it is acceptable to your mother.’

‘Yes,’ Alexander accepted, rather too quickly for approbation, but he just as readily made amends. ‘Yes, you must ask her for permission. Please do,' he said, sorrowful to tell a lie, and to be deprived forever of the company of this dark and kind man, with whom his connection was real, and immediate, and which would be a tragedy to lose.

'I will go to her at once,' agreed Mr. Washington, and he kissed Alexander's hand before wishing him a good evening. Alexander stood stock-still in the centre of the room, and then he fled, before he could be missed, down the stairs and out, into the warm night air.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Alexander Espies the Marquis — The Schuyler Sisters, Continued — The Journey Begins — A Farewell_

The night was balmy; clouds had begun to roll in and cover the waning summer moon. Alexander paused for a moment at the edge of the square to wish his old life farewell. He could not tarry, but for a moment stared wistfully up at the lighted windows, and ruminated on how his new acquaintance would be making solicitations to his guardian, in order to make the visit on the morrow proper. He was sorry to be missing it, but he comforted himself with the thought that Mr. Washington was very handsome, and not so old, really, and while he would have liked to become more intimately connected with him, in due time and in the proper course of things, he would not be missed. 

He made his way down the street as stealthily as he could; at one point, he fancied he saw Monsieur Lafayette smoking a cigar while he looked in the darkened window of the town’s best shop, and he ducked into the shadows to avoid being seen. When Lafayette had turned his back once more, Alexander wasted no time and made for the woods forthwith; as he ran, his shoes pounding along the cobblestones and, though he did not know it at the time, drew the attention of the Frenchman which he had thought to avoid. 

On his way to the grove, Alexander encountered no other person, which was just as well, for they would have had great difficulty in dissuading him from his purpose. We will pause here to point out that Alexander had fortitude. Had it in spades, in fact, so thick that it could have been used as mulch around the roots of an elm tree. What he lacked were the twin qualities of preparedness and foresight. He wished to run away and seek a new life, find his father, seek adventure, taste freedom, in any order that these events might occur. 

In this we must commend rather than judge him, for what person has not felt, at some time or another, confined by her circumstances? Whether that confinement resides in the station in life she must dutifully fulfill by virtue of her birth order: — as it was with Eliza, the second child, who much preferred the happy cooing of soft, clean babies to the bloody and taxing job of a country doctor; or in the choice of the man she is commanded by her mother to marry; — as it was with Angelica, for even if she found the fellow suitable, admired the cut of his jib or the line of his leg — she could still hope that, at minimum, her heart might also be granted a say in the matter: though how could one’s heart weigh in on a decision already completely predetermined by one’s elders?; —or, how, in the case of women, a woman might think to love another woman, both in the general sense and more intimately, and who could blame her? — or blame the youngest daughter, Peggy?: — when everybody knows that women are more intelligent, more genteel, endlessly more accomplished, and so wholly superior to the gentler sex, who are quite misnomed, given their endless appetites for food and fornication that must be kept in strictest check. 

Who has not wished to run away at one time other another? Why, even a woman grown such as Lady Catherine — who had passed well over a score of years with the same man, good, kind, loving Philip, whom she had never met until her wedding day at the age of four-and-twenty, and whose heart had found itself lucky in that the determined arrangement suited it as well — even she, with her books, and her work, and her room of her own, on occasion wished to know how life was lived elsewhere. To know how it felt to take a lover, to wear trousers, to eat a plate of pork ribs with her bare hands, to bathe naked in the sea and sleep on a hammock beneath the stars. 

But people on the whole do their duty, and in this way the normal order of things continues. 

To return to our runaway, we note that we cannot fault Alexander for the desire to escape, but we may pass judgment on his execution of the plan. In fairness, the business with Mrs. Prevost had hastened his plans and spurred him to action, but he had not, in any case, considered the matter much beyond the circumstances his departure and the direction in which he would head. A person of greater sense than Alexander (by which we mean a woman; in fact _any_ woman) would have sat down with pen and paper and made a dozen lists. She would have planned according to weather, terrain, hardships foreseeable and hardly not, and taken careful stock of all her resources. She would not fall into the mistakes made by this young man, who simply by virtue of his sex was conspicuous, being out after dark, on the high road, without female guardian or watch-woman to look after him and see him to safety. A sensible person would have remembered to bring, for example, a suit of clothes suitable for travel, made of plain dark cloth that could be used as bedding, or bartered away if it came to that. 

A woman would have brought food that would keep on the journey: apples, biscuits, hard cheese, dried meats. Alexander brought in his hands a few ham tarts wrapped in cloth, some grapes from the party banquet, some small roast ortolans, very smelly and greasy in their bag, and a small sackful of oats which for which he possessed no means of cooking, neither pot nor matches, and which, over time, would eventually spill out into his baggage and leave behind a trail on the footpath for the squirrels to enjoy. She would warily pilfer coins from the family purse over the course of several months, until she had accumulated a goodly store of them, enough to procure food, and — if all went according to plan, lodging or transport to points further south. Alexander had a few shillings which were all that remained from his Christmas present, when he and Aaron Burr were each given five whole pounds to spend or save as they liked. Alexander immediately spent nearly every penny on books and pamphlets which were in fact, at this very moment, weighing heavily upon his back; he had, of course, brought every last one, as well as paper, inkpot, blotter, quills, fine paper, and sealing wax. In addition to his small amount of liquid capital, he was also in possession of a tourmaline brooch that Mrs. Schuyler had given her youngest daughter on the occasion of her first cycle, and which Peggy had worn but once, because the first time she did so Alexander remarked that the colour did not suit her. He guessed it would therefore not be missed.

So it should be clear Alexander was no woman, and while he set out on his adventure with his chin held high, his feet clad in his finest shoes, his stockings already rubbing against the leather, blisters rising on his feet as he turned his way south and began to follow the course of the river — and he thought that he was very sorry that he would never again see Mr. George Washington, who was really quite a handsome man — certainly the strongest and tallest man he had ever met or seen in his adult life! his bearing alone! such noble features! such magnificent hands! and how beautifully he danced! how fine he looked in his costume! how comely! how courteous he was, how attentive! — the whole adventure unraveled very expediently, as we shall presently observe.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Remains of the Ball — Theodosia's Proposal — What Washington Heard — Alexander Begins an Adventure_

Alexander made his exit as the clock was striking a quarter past eleven, and it transpired that he was leaving right at the busiest time of the party. At this point in the evening, the better class of townspeople and tradespersons were permitted entrance to the assembly rooms. Now, some of the better society were beginning to take their departures, but the festivities continued without interruption, and so, though the band grew very tired and the remaining sandwiches grew quite limp, a good time was had by all.

Such hustle and bustle occupied them all, a slew of persons arriving just as as many others were calling for their carriages, that the room hummed with activity, and so it was fairly easy to see why Alexander’s absence went unnoticed until he had already gained some distance and traversed well beyond the sweep. Mr. Philip Schuyler, who had had quite enough of country walks and weeks upon weeks of slimming, had taken up residence by the biscuits and a very agreeable piece of Shropshire blue. Eliza was sitting on a chair at a small table with her hands folded demurely in her lap, listening to an excited John Laurens tell her, quite intently, all about the animals which soon, as part of her education, she would be required to dissect. Peggy was happily ensconced with Mrs. Maria Reynolds, who had just arrived with her husband, and was recounting the events of the evening to them: who had sat where, and what they ate, and the speeches, and who danced with whom; Mr. Reynolds looked either very bored or very drunk, possibly both, and Mrs. Reynolds seemed uncommonly interested in the proceedings of a party which she had heretofore been barred from attending, and expressed a proper degree of pleasure at all which Peggy showed her.

Lady Catherine was distressed as a result of her conversation with Mrs. Abigail Adams, and was so lost in her own thoughts that she did not recognize that Mrs. and Mr. Prevost were saying their farewells until they were upon her. She was ready, herself, to give in to the lateness of the hour and speak for the carriages, but as it was Angelica’s party, she entertained away the notion until her eldest gave such signs of being prepared to depart.

Theodosia Prevost had some business with her, and she took this opportunity to mention it with candor. ‘I would very much like to call on you on the morrow,’ Theodosia said, extending her hand to shake, ‘I believe there are matters which we are both eager to see settled with as much expediency as possible.

Lady Catherine readily agreed to this, and upon hearing the urgency in her voice — which was not, we might add without unduly spoiling the suspense, anything to do with Mrs. Prevost and her desire to acquire Aaron and Alexander, as a matched set (like a pair of teacups), but was directly correlated to her recent exchange with Abigail on matters personal as well as political — upon hearing this, Mr. Washington, who had been on the verge of stepping forward and begging her leave to call upon them the next day (at approximately the same time as Mrs. Prevost), withdrew without so much as a word. It was more than common prudence, however, which kept him close at hand, and near enough to overhear the words which were spoken freely between the two women.

‘Yes, of course,’ Mrs. Schuyler conceded, politely. ‘I honour your circumspection. Did Alexander conduct himself to your liking this evening?’ Had Lady Catherine been in complete possession of all her faculties, then she would have refrained from asking such a question when she already knew its answer: — that Alexander had not behaved, nor had he ever done so, that he was impossible, that he talked far, far too much for a man, — and such nonsense at that!

‘He will be an undertaking,’ was all that Theodosia would say, with a calm air, ‘for which I greatly anticipate the prospect. Shall we say a bit before tea-time? That may give you the opportunity to have a word with him prior to my arrival. Only do not allow him to lie abed too long, even after tonight’s excitement, I would have him fresh upon our meeting.’ She patted her husband’s arm then and he, understanding the private signal, moved a polite distance away so that the ladies could discuss important matters between themselves, which are wholly unfit for the delicate ears of gentlemen.

‘He is most impudent,’ Theodosia said, once he had cleared them. Her voice was meant to carry, through churchyard and nave, and carry it did. Yes, Mr. Washington heard every word. ‘And you will be glad to be well rid of him, I should think. Does not your second daughter come of age very shortly?’ She turned her head to gaze upon Eliza and John; the former, very green, the latter, very red. A charming couple.

‘I have very little to settle him with,’ responded Mrs. Schuyler, with aggravation. Rachel’s relations had been unable to grant her son a dowry of any size, and even if meanness had not been the root cause, lack of fortune would have been. A hundred pounds was all he would bring to a household, and no investments, property, or steady income to his name. ‘He really is running out of time.’

‘Mr. Burr, though?’ inquired Theodosia, with subtle craft.

‘Has much of his mother’s estate,’ answered Lady Catherine, without guile, for she was a forthright sort of person. ‘Obviously the house is in the custody of the church until he marries.’

‘Of course,’ Theodosia said, altogether very sweetly. ‘A fine placement she had. Very well-situated.’

‘Mmm,’ said Catherine, the better portion of whose thoughts were diverted with matters other than Alexander.

‘Do think it over,’ said Theodosia, beckoning Mr. Prevost back over. ‘It would solve one problem with another, very neatly for you.’

‘That woman!’ Lady Catherine said, out loud but to herself, when Theodosia Prevost was gone from earshot. She shook her head in disgust. Mr. Washington, who was standing close enough to eavesdrop, took notice when she made this remark, and though he let it pass without comment; he caught her eye and then withdrew his own. And in that long moment an understanding passed between they two, as if, by some forethought, the one might recognize that she or he would be responsible, in some as yet undetermined way, for the happiness of the other.

 

 

~*~

 

Some miles downriver, Alexander was asleep beneath a hedge. Asleep was a misnomer. He was horizontal beneath a hedge and hoping to sleep, trying, with great strain and due frustration, to sleep. Several positions had been experimented with, all to no avail. On his back, on his left, and then his right. Bag beneath his head, arm beneath it, or nothing beneath it. It was comfortable enough, as hedges go, dense and not too prickly, but it was a hedge nonetheless, and so far, it ranked just above the ship’s hold where he and his mother passed three sickly months on their voyage back to the land of her birth, which she had but set foot upon before she passed. Since that journey, and even before then, in the fetid air of the land of his birth, Alexander had been prone to illness. This too, he had inherited from Rachel Faucette, along with her sharpness of wit and her stubborn determination to do whatever she wished, and to _h---_ with the rest of them.

Alexander shifted again. He missed his bed; he thought, for a long and painful minute, about his goosefeather pillow and three fine quilts. Thought of the warming irons wrapped in flannel that would heat their toes in wintertime, and the way the linens smelled, very fragrant and sweet, owing to the fact that Burr washed them with a lavender soap of his own concoction, and hung them to dry in the sunshine. The hedge smelled of damp, not pleasant at all. He thought long and hard about his family, his mother, and even about his friend and bedmate Aaron Burr. For the first time in his life, Alexander was truly alone, and he was not sure if he liked it very much.

The moon passed overhead, obfuscated by thickening clouds. Alexander fidgeted beneath his hedge. Thus far, running away had been more or less uneventful. He had heard tales, of course, of unmarriageable men who lived like savage beasts, hidden in the woods, and would prey upon the young men who were so foolish as to go about alone, after dark. Fearsome stories of wolves, and bears, and rabid dogs without owners — much, in fact, like the men who had not been selected. It seems prudent to suggest here that men, like dogs, are the collective responsibility of the society into which they are born. Regardless, of all these eventualities, Alexander had the most reason to fear the dogs, with whom he had already had chance to encounter earlier that night. The savage woodsmen were but a mother's tale to keep their sons safe at home, and to prevent their wandering off and into trouble. 

The issue here was that Alexander had not thought very far into his plan; so little, in fact, that he had neglected to bring a compass or any means of telling direction. He knew the North Star, and had followed that for a while, before he remembered he had meant to make for Cardiff, which he remembered as a bustling port whence he might procure passage on a ship. Bound for Scotland, or France, or New York even; but, again, he had not yet got to that point in his plans.

After he had cleared the perimeter of the town, and then the parish, for he made good time despite his shoes, carried forth by only the thought of outrunning Mrs. Prevost. When he felt he had made sufficient distance, he paused by the riverbank. He dined on two of the tiny roasted songbirds, which had left his fingers oily, and when he had seen that the only means he had of wiping his hands free of grease was Mr. Washington’s token — and so pristine it was, so crisp and clean, of clearest white with his monogram stitched in each corner in black and red, the colours of a harlequin — and he thought that it best to keep it that way, as he had no foreseeable means of laundering it, and so, setting his pack on the side of the road (a very stupid place to leave it, especially if it contains food, and there are any dogs about), he washed his hands in the river. And while he was there, it made sense to then soak his blistered feet as well, and then, as it was very late and he was very itchy, he bathed in it.

Bathing in general, but particularly at night, is known to be most unhealthy, especially when one has been dancing and comporting oneself with a partner, even more so when one has no towel, nor fresh attire to change into! Having no other means with which to dry himself, Alexander lay on the damp grass until the water evaporated from his bare skin. It felt cool and pleasant. He had begun to dress himself again, in his soiled clothing, when he heard noises from the road. He immediately fell down, face first, afraid that it was a rider sent to retrieve him and force his hand. After a moment he deduced that the noises he heard were not human, and braving the riverbank in his stockinged feet, clothes in hand, set upon the three mangy curs that nosed at his pack.

‘Off!’ Alexander cried, and seized a stick with which to drive them away. They retreated a short distance, but followed him, with whines and cries, as he attempted to dress whilst walking away. Eventually he gave them what remained of the roast songbirds, and they left him in peace. Only after walking for a few more hours, until the light grew gray from the immanent dawn, did Alexander at last seek shelter.

On any other night, the hedge would have been perfectly satisfactory; certainly it was larger than some workmen’s cottages, and altogether more airy. But on a night when one has fallen into a river, and has blisters upon their heels from walking too far in uncomfortable shoes, and has been chased by dogs, and is still slightly drunk, and has danced with a tall, handsome widower, and has no lavender-scented pillow on which to rest one’s head, and misses, however unlikely it might seem, even the gentle snores of their bedmate, then a hedge comes to seem quite inadequate a place of rest. But sleep he did, eventually.

The rain came just before dawn: a quick, soaking rain, as sometimes blows up off the Beacons yet blows away just as quickly, but leaves the roads muddy and sheep drenched. Alexander, upon waking, found that the hedge had provided cover from the nearby road, but sadly none from the rain, and as he was wearing very unsuitable clothing for a journey, what in light wool or cotton might have dried in little time, in silk and brocade remained slimy and soggy as he made his way forth.

Let us not forget that Alexander was, like his mother before him, determined, and so he set out again that morning in the chill damp after eating one of the remaining ham tarts, his sodden bag of damp books slung over his shoulder, the handkerchief gripped safely in hand.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Marquis Departs — Mulligan and Mr. Schuyler — A Visitor at South End — Alexander is Discovered Missing_

We will leave Alexander now, but allow him enough distance so that his absence will be felt by the household. This took longer than it might have done on an ordinary day of the week. Monmouth and all her attendant visitors slept. They slept the sleep of people who have gotten very pleasantly drunk the night before, and who have made ambitious plans for early breakfasts, taking of views, or country walks, but when the hour comes, beg the servants to close the drapes and to leave them, in peace and quiet darkness, for just a few moments more.

Among these many who slept, two men were awake. One of these was the visiting Marquis, whose full appellation was significant in France, but not to us; so we will say only that his Christian name was Gilbert, his surname Lafayette, and his most immediate wish on this rainy morning was to make an early departure and seek the society of a woman we will chance to encounter later on.

He breakfasted on leftover cake and called for his horse before the sun rose, to the acute consternation of a very groggy stablehand. On his way out of town, in the dim early light, he noticed that a trail of grain (oats, to be specific, though he had not the word in English) bobbed and weaved along the road, and his horse was following its path, stopping erratically to nibble at the ground. A strange English custom, he decided, to throw oats at a wedding, and with this thought he spurred his horse onwards to the east.

The second man awake at this hour was Mulligan, for he was a temperate man, and accustomed to rising early for labour. He was already hard at work while the Schuylers slept, the Prevosts slept, the Churches slept. At almost exactly the same moment as Alexander was leaving his hedge for greener (if soggier) pastures, Mulligan was setting the porridge to soak. Or would have been, had he been able to find it. For the porridge was missing in its paper sack, on account of it being currently in the possession of Alexander, who only just remembered he had brought neither pot nor spoon nor matches, and was realizing now that raw oats make a very poor breakfast indeed, and will discover later how they adversely affect the digestion. 

‘Dear me,’ Mulligan said, when he could not locate the bag of oats. Devising a new plan on the spot, he went in search of flour with which to make the morning’s bread.

A pair of loaves were cooling on the counter by the time Mr. Schuyler made his groggy way into the kitchens. Mulligan was using the spare time to take stock of the pantry, and compile a list for the grocers’.

‘Good morning, Mulligan,’ said Mr. Schuyler, as he entered.

‘Good morning, Sir,’ answered Mulligan, setting aside his count of the dried fruits for the time being. ‘Tea?’

‘Please,’ said Mr. Schuyler, touching his forehead with a wince. ‘May I?’ Philip indicated a stool near the counter. He looked down suspiciously at the warm bread, sniffed, and turned away from it.

‘By all means,’ Mulligan said, as he set the kettle to boil. They waited companionably for it to whistle.

‘The others, I think—’ Mr. Schuyler began, and then drifted off mid-sentence. The teapot was warmed, then filled. He stared at it with longing.

‘Does Mrs. Angelica intend to depart today?’ Mulligan prompted, and placed a cup and saucer before Philip.

‘I think—' said Philip, with another pause as Mulligan poured. ‘Oh, yes. Angelica—’

‘I expect everyone still is abed,’ Mulligan suggested. ‘And perhaps you might bring Lady Catherine her tea, and the rest can make do as they wake? Shall we breakfast on your hour?’

Mr. Schuyler took a sip of tea. His eyes widened fractionally. He took another sip.

‘Precisely,’ he said, in a decisive air. ‘You may send Alexander along with her breakfast when it is ready.’ He drank some more, and grew much livelier. ‘She will want eggs, fried, not too hard, but with the white well cooked. Toast, dry toast I think, no butter — easier on the stomach, in the morning after a party, and cheese—’ and then he stopped, for he was thinking here of his own previous night’s indulgence with sour stomach and ill recollection, ‘—no,’ he said, firmly, ‘no cheese. The toast and the eggs will suffice, and I will of course see to her tea.’

‘I will bring it through when it is ready,’ Mulligan said. He thought it best to avoid aggrieving Mr. Schuyler with the information that Alexander had not been there to help him prepare breakfast, even though it was his appointed day to do so. Like everyone in the household, Mulligan knew that Alexander often went missing for hours at a stretch, and could, after a short poke about, likely be found beneath a tree, or by the riverbend, and even sat down wholesale on the side of the road; — so absorbed in his thoughts, or in writing them down before they evaporated like dew, that he quite lost track of time.

‘Thank you,’ said Philip, who waited until his cup was refilled to add, warmly, ‘I don’t know what we would do without you, Mulligan.’

‘It’s no bother,’ said Mulligan, and then he began to prepare Mrs. Schuyler’s breakfast. Mr. Schuyler departed for his wife's chambers, a teacup in each hand.

As he was slicing stale bread for toast, there came a knock on the tradesmen's door. Whatever could it be? It was too early for the post, too late for the grocer’s girl, who stopped by twice a week at 8 o’clock sharp.

Mulligan dusted his hands on his apron and went to answer it. A gentleman stood outside, clad in somber clothes of black, beige, white, and gray, altogether well-stitched, with a perfectly tied cravat. He wore also an intense look of purpose on his face, which seemed very grave indeed.

‘Can I help you, Sir?’ he asked, ascertaining correctly that this was no tradesman, but a man of consequence who must have some reason for coming to the side of the house rather than being received properly at the the front entrance.

‘Good morning,’ said the gentleman, who doffed his hat, bowed, and wiped the drizzle which collected there from his bare head before replacing it.

‘Good morning to you,’ responded Mulligan, squinting at the damp sky. ‘Will you not come inside?’

‘I cannot stay,’ said the man, and shook his head. ‘I am here merely to inquire whether Mrs. and Mr. Schuyler will be receiving visitors today.’

Mulligan looked at the gray clouds again and frowned. ‘They will very likely not,’ he said, ‘but if you wish it I will tell them that you called?’

The man shook his head and then pressed a coin into Mulligan’s hand. ‘I will return this same time tomorrow,’ he said, ‘and would appreciate it if you were able to share with me any news, any news at all, about what transpires here today.’

Mulligan looked at the coin. He was disinclined to trust strangers, as a rule, and he was an honest man, well-compensated by the standards of the day, who liked his employers and they, in turn, respected him.

'I am no spy,' he said, cautiously. 

'Of course,' soothed the man, 'I am certain that any information which you pass along is that which, by means of direct inquiries, I could also ascertain. But there is a certain expediency which I require. I am sure you understand?' 

Mulligan stared at him. The tall man sighed, and passed over another coin. 

We will here reiterate that Mulligan was both loyal and honest. But be that as it may, every man must fend for himself in the world, which is so cruel to those without family connection. He hoped to put a little aside now and then, so that one day in the not-too-distant future he would be able to retire from service. Then he would let a cottage near the sea, and find himself a companion. A man of course — for he would by that point be too old to be of use to any woman; unable to provide her with an heir, too unskilled in his age for idle satisfaction. An attachment between men will always be a connection of the second-class sort, with no woman to guide the household. But it is, nonetheless, a very kind and companionable way for two men — without heir, fortune, or title to pass on — to live out the remainder of their brutal and short lives. Men on the whole only become sensible, tolerable company by the time they reach two score or more. And yet, because of the inherent weakness of their constitutions and their bodies, they often die from a strain of the heart or liver before they reach three score. 

Mulligan pocketed the coins, and thought no more on the matter. 'Do you shoot?' he asked the gentleman. 

'Of course,' he answered, with a nod. 'Why do you ask?' 

'You may find it appropriate to call on us tomorrow morning, after breakfast,' he said, 'and inquire after the possibility of quailing on our land.' 

'A very sound idea,' said the gentleman. 'Good day to you.' He doffed his hat again and, swinging himself up onto his massive white horse, rode away at a fine trot. 

Mulligan closed the door and returned to his work, of which there was plenty to occupy him. 

Mrs. Schuyler remained abed with her toast and eggs and then dozed until she felt quite herself again. After she woke, she would be engrossed in the papers and her correspondence for the remainder of the day. Matters were moving: to the east, a storm gathered.

Later on in the dining room, the upright members of the household were eating a very delayed breakfast or an early luncheon, depending on your view, for which only some of them had appetite. Mr. Schuyler had by this point consumed a great deal of tea, and was, despite his advanced age, very chatty for the day after a party.

‘Mr. Burr has remained with your parents,’ said Mr. Schuyler to his son-in-law, ‘but he will be back later this afternoon when he has helped them set the church to rights. I believe we can expect them all to be here around tea-time.’

‘Of course,’ said John, looking around the table. ‘But wherever is Alexander? Does he not wish to eat?’

Mr. Schuyler waved a hand, ‘I am sure he is in the woods, or hiding in a tree. He has his nose in a book somewhere out of doors.’

‘It is raining,’ said Angelica, with condescension into her coffee. ‘I do not think it likely, Papa, that he is out of doors.’’

‘The stables, then,' said her father, scraping the knife over the surface of his toast. Inside their own heads, everybody winced at the sound and thought it very loud, for bread.

Peggy said, ‘I am certain he was — _is_ not in the stables,' and bit into her toast. 

‘He did not mention it last night,’ said Eliza, pondering. ‘Although,’ and then she thought back, trying to recollect when she last spoke to Alexander, for everything had happened in such a rush. ‘We did not speak much at the assembly.’

‘Did not he ride home with you?’ asked John of his sister-in-law.

‘No,’ Eliza said, putting down her teacup and adjusting it in the saucer. ‘He was meant to go in Mother’s carriage, I am certain.’

‘But I thought he was with you?’ said Angelica, in an accusing tone to her sister, as if she were the one who had left Alexander behind.

‘And I thought he was with _you_!’ exclaimed Eliza, who felt very poorly and immediately regretted shouting, as her head hurt.

‘I thought he walked?’ chimed in Peggy, who, after Philip, was the only person who felt well enough to talk. This was because she was very young, and the effects of drink pass over young people quickly. They do not appreciate this fortitude until they have lost it, by which time it is already too late for regret. ‘He was probably in need of air and that is why he walked. I must say, he looked very poor after his dance with Mrs. Prevost.’

‘That is an unkind thing to notice,’ said John, with reprehension.

‘It’s true,’ said Peggy, folding her arms across her chest and staring angrily at her eggs.

‘Children,’ said Mr. Schuyler, looking at each of them in turn. ‘Who has seen Alexander? Who woke him this morning?’ He called for Mulligan, who entered. 

'Mulligan,' he said, 'have you chanced to see our Alexander this fine morning?' 

Mulligan looked around the table at the worried faces of the Schuylers. He shook his head. 'I have not,' he answered.

Eliza looked at Peggy — Angelica looked at Peggy — John looked at Peggy — Peggy looked at her father — Mr. Schuyler looked at Mulligan — and as one they all began to talk at once.

Alexander walked south. The rain was a drizzle, intermittent and soggy. Every few steps he paused to cough, delicately, into the handkerchief.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Modern Major General — Tea with the Prevosts — Care of the Body — And of the Mind_

Mr. Washington, who has seemed to us and everybody else the true standard of gentlemanly perfection, must now come into focus as our object. As we draw in closer, it is worthwhile to mention that what follows should remain, as a matter of propriety and good sense, between ourselves, and accordingly, is not be shared as common knowledge.

Though he derived from a proper (if wholly unremarkable) family, and had (through military service) propelled his station ever upwards, and was (in manners and reputation) blameless and without fault — despite all this, Mr. Washington rarely thought of himself as a gentleman. Amongst friends and comrades he was known as _Washington,_ by underlings was he ever addressed as _Sir,_ with the Minister of War and her staff he was _Major General_ (or whatever rank he happened to possess at the time). Only ever to himself, in times of prayer, solitude, and quiet reflection, was he _George._

Washington differed from Alexander on nearly every account: his face was broad where Alexander’s was long; his head was shorn, as opposed to Alexander’s lustrous black hair, (on which we have dwelt for some time, and affixed to it all requisite superlatives); his nature was vigourous rather than firey. His hands were large, his height tall, his legs well-muscled, his person massive. He had a smile as hard-won as his humour, which was not given readily to schemes, whimsies, or diversions. He was easy in his person, but with a certain readiness in his nature that had been cultivated by his association with the military. His honour he wore as proudly as he did his uniform, yet overall he thought very little of the effect his costume might have on his bearing, or how it might affect others. He reprobated games, falsehoods, and flights of fancy all equally, for he possessed such a sense of right that even a black lie — what we know as a miniscule falsehood, one which is told merely to conserve the delicate feelings of another — was seen as the greatest injustice to the honour which became a gentleman. In short, he had no duplicity of character: his honesty was widely known, and remarked on by all and sundry.

On his family we will not dwell, but merely remind the reader that Major General Washington had never been part of the rank and file infantry, the men drawn from the cast-out, divorced, or unmarriageable, and who were in body and spirit the lowest sort; — but of course so deeply deserving of our gratitude for their service! He was noted (even as a child) for his strength, size, and probity of mind, all of which marked him out with distinction. Thus at the age of fourteen, he forfeit his family (who were, of course, duly compensated for their loss) and joined the elite regiment which guards our borders, stations our garrisons, captains our tall ships, and marshalls our fields.

The long, spirited ride which he took after he paid visit to Mulligan at South End was most unhelpful in driving Mr. Alexander Schuyler from his thoughts. Truly he was anxious and full of unease. His mind was altogether preoccupied with our Alexander, for whom he had felt an immediate inclination and — perhaps of greater importance — a fierce and sudden desire to protect. Washington returned to his temporary place of lodging, saw to the stabling of his horse himself, and took a plate of cold meat and a cup of ale for his lunch. That afternoon the atmosphere remained in its unsettled state between rain and fog, and so he availed himself of the opportunity to call upon Mrs. and Mr. Church, and to pass some time in their company.

Mr. Church read his newspaper from town; Mrs. Church played Patience and spoke very freely about every topic which was put to her. After some time, Washington brought the subject around to Alexander.

‘That young man!’ she laughed, and then placed a red king atop a black queen with a hoot of triumph.

‘You laugh?’ said Washington. ‘I have met him but twice, but he seems agreeable enough, if talkative. A clever wife, surely, would turn that trait to her advantage?’

‘Well said, Mr. Washington,’ remarked Mrs. Church, now frowning at the cards laid out in front of her, ‘very well said: in this you are correct. Moreover, a wife might expect to tell him what to do! I have it on good authority — from John (in a low voice) — that he is widely thought very difficult, though of course Lady Catherine will vouch for him. She must, of course, if she wishes to see him married, and then there is the other ward—’

‘Mr. Burr?’ questioned Washington, altogether hastily. ‘I must confess, I do not know his character. I hardly know him by sight.’

‘A splendid fellow, very agreeable,’ said Mrs. Church. ‘His pies are said to have taken the top prize at the village _fête_ three years running. I hope that he will treat us to one when he visits Theodosia and James at Cheltenham. Peaches will be in season, I think, or if not those then red currants. It would be well to have both at once, though of course they never seem to be in season at the same time. Richard, my dear, wouldn't that be nice? Didn’t you say that when Mr. Burr pays his compliments it should be in the form of a peach pie?’ she asked her husband, who had, lulled by the sound of the recently returned rain, nodded off. He snorted awake, paid her in turn, the compliment of complete and utter agreement with anything she had said during his absence, and promptly fell back asleep.

Once this had finished, Washington asked a very daring question. ‘Will he marry Mrs. Prevost?’ He awaited the answer with baited breath.

‘Who? Alexander? Oh, he may yet,’ Mrs. Church answered, entirely forthright, ‘but with every hour that passes I think it less and less likely.’

‘Where are they now?’ he asked, for the Prevosts were remarkably absent from the scene.

‘Well, as bad luck would have it, Mrs. Prevost meant to call on Mrs. Schuyler this afternoon, but she has taken ill and not left her rooms,’ said Mrs. Church with concern. ‘She has been unable to eat all day, and it must be an illness, for of course she takes no alcohol, unlike the rest of us. She has not permitted us to call for the medic, which I do think rather strange, but I will not press her on the matter. Of course we sent Mr. Burr home in our carriage, for it only seems proper to share it with those who are less fortunate.

‘Very kind of you,’ said Washington, absently, ‘most obliging.’

The red queen was unearthed and placed at the top of the next line of cards, with some remarks about luck and time, and in this pleasant way the afternoon was spent.

After a simple dinner Mr. Washington looked in on his horse, who was very happy to avoid the expected fate of an evening's ride, as the weather had turned, once more, from mist to rain. 

Exercise, as our handbooks remind us, is one of the many ways in which men may improve their bodies and drive away impure thoughts. These take the form of country walks, dances, or, for the the very rich and very foolish, bathing in the sea. Overall, the regiments do not adhere to our strict standards of modesty. There is no need for shame between men, and so for preference, exercise is taken whenever possible out of doors, performed while wearing as little clothing as possible, so as to refrain from inhibiting the full range of the body's motion.

(We might here comment that it is just as well that Alexander had, even in his wildest fantasies, never envisaged a scene such as the one which now unfolds before us, as his agitated heart would have been wholly unable to bear the strain.) 

His manner of exercise will be foreign to us; — unless we have spent time in a soldier's camp or have had sustained contact with our friends and trading partners to the East, their warriors and ascetics, and is thus difficult to describe. We will say simply that a whole range of movements — jabbing, thrusting, twisting, stabbing, pushing, pulling, jacknifing, flexing, exhaling, humming, grunting, and so on, for quite a long time — were all performed on the bare wooden floor, in bare feet, while the man in question wore only a pair of loose-fitting trousers of very light cloth, which were held up at the waist with a very small and tightly wound piece of string. Following this he bathed himself in the basin, using water cold and fresh from the well, and in this manner he tempered his body as a blacksmith will forge a sword, and then plunge it, spitting and hissing, into water to strengthen it. 

All that remains to say is that he grudged for no comfort. The bed was firm; his sleep unbroken but with dreams unsettled. In the morning he spent an early hour in quiet reflection, then, taking only a glass of fortified wine and a small hard biscuit for his breakfast, addressed himself to his correspondence — he owed letters to his compatriots, and the lady steward who managed his affairs, who had been blessed with the advantages of being shrewdly astute, practical with figures, and fluent in French. She was also painfully lovely to look upon, but as that did not concern our Major General, nor shall it concern us.

He set out at precisely ten o'clock in the morning. Even though no appointed hour had been given, it was in his nature always to be arriving early, so as to avoid ever being late. He had dressed in his regular attire but carried a burlap sack, a broken rifle, and a canister of shells with him, for his pretext, and, as the rain had finally ceased, turned his horse in a southerly direction and rode hard for the Schuylers. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Alexander's Adventure — Mr. Washington Arrives — Lady Catherine's Indiscretion — Most Obedient Service_

Briefly, Alexander’s adventure continued. He had got lost multiple times, but was heading more or less in the direction of Cardiff. He had met a goat, fallen into a patch of brambles, broken a heel, snagged his stockings, torn a lapel, sat down in exhaustion, fallen asleep by accident, woken up, spotted a bluebird, then finished his ham tarts. Finally he drained two blisters, one large and one small, both disgusting, and then dealt with the effects of eating raw oats for breakfast. The second night he slept beneath a different hedge and found it more tolerable than the first. A week of this and he would practically be a woodsman, he thought, and the notion depressed and cheered him in equal measure. Before he fell asleep he composed a short poem on his experience to date, and looked forward to the prospect of writing it down later on.

Around that same time Washington was riding out from his lodging. He noted the poor condition the rains left the roads in, especially with all the traffic streaming away from town as people returned, as they do after a wedding, to their homes and their affairs. Life seems renewed, for a little while, by the happy felicity of a proper wedding, well-spoken and executed without fault, to be followed by dancing, eating, and drinking in such quantity as to produce an exquisite headache the morning after, all of which will provide our rural inhabitants with conversation enough to last at least through Christmas — around that same time Alexander was stopping in at a tavern to see if the proprietress would permit him the use of a vessel in which to cook his porridge, and allow him to part with half a shilling for a pint of ale.

  
(She did both, in addition to drying his wet things by the fire and offering him a toasted crumpet for which she would not take money, but accepted in its place a copy of the poem Alexander composed for her, which was, unfortunately, very bad, but well-meant in sentiment.)  

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

To return to Mr. Washington, he made good time despite the mud. A carriage encountered him on his way. He stopped his horse at the side of the road and allowed it to pass him on his right. The driver tipped his cap, and Washington responded in kind. Reynolds was the driver, but since Washington did not know him, a meeting was thus averted. The carriage carried Lady Catherine and Angelica into town. The former was anxious, both over the rumors of troops massing along the Calais border and at Alexander’s being gone, and at this point, as yet unfound. The latter lady was also distressed, for she had been promised a honeymoon — with dancing, and privacy, and all manner of promenades with her lovely husband on her arm — before life dealt her any further responsibilities. Angelica was cross that it was being delayed by Alexander, who had always struck her (with the distaste of the eldest child, the one with all the responsibility and laid expectation upon them) as being very frivolous, and able to get away with anything he pleased, even though he was merely a boy, and who, she suspected sometimes, might be smarter than she. The idea upset her very much indeed. Angelica was not uncharitable, but she had not yet had the chance to grow into her own woman, being steered in one direction by her mother for so very long, which is typical enough, but especially true when that woman was Mrs. Schuyler.

‘Good morning to you, sir,’ said Mulligan, who met him around the front of the house this time, for he had been espied coming up the walk, and those who were home raced to the front windows to watch him arrive.

‘Papa?’ said Peggy, for she was more observant than anybody gave her credit for being. ‘Is he here for Alexander?’

‘Well, my darling,’ said Mr. Schuyler, who suddenly felt very flustered, and wished his wife were there to handle this matter — for he was unaccustomed to dealing with tall and handsome gentlemen of his own age. ‘I think he may very well be.’

‘But Alexander is not here!’ said John, and he caught Eliza’s eye, as if he were waiting for her to tell them all what to do, which, of course, they were.

‘No,’ she said, her voice folding in on itself with this precise knowledge. ‘That he most certainly is not.’

‘He has a gun with him,’ Philip observed. Mulligan and the Major General were exchanging words on the front drive; the horse pawed at the ground as if he were bored by their conversation.

‘Perhaps he means to shoot?’ Peggy asked. She looked around the room optimistically. ‘Maybe he will not come inside the house at all!’

‘We must receive him!’ John chastened. ‘That would be immeasurably rude, as we are at home.’ 

‘Well,’ Peggy deliberated for a moment. ‘We can pretend to not be at home?’

‘It is far too late for that,’ Eliza said, as she waved to the men through the window, where Aaron Burr was very deliberately pointing them out. Mulligan led the horse away. Its tail swished. 

‘But, under no circumstances can we tell him!,’ said John, who was also more observant than he has yet been given credit for. ‘I do not think Lady Catherine would be pleased with that decision.’

‘No,’ Peggy giggled, ‘she would be very angry with you, and with us all.’

John blushed, though it did not show. Eliza turned to her youngest sister and her new brother-in-law. ‘We will delay him as best we can,’ she said, with the air of someone who has recently decided that they will take charge, because no one else has yet done so, but who is less than pleased with the decision. ‘John,’ she said, ‘you will show him around the house, which he has not seen yet, and then Peggy, you must come and take him through the grounds. He is a gentleman farmer, he may have questions about our fields as well. I will speak to Aaron Burr and see if he has anything in his sewing basket on which to bestow interest. And Papa,’ she said, ‘you will go to the kitchens and make sure there is luncheon enough for six. And then we will have some music, and in this way we will distract him until Mother returns, and she will tell him what she deems fit for him to know.’

When she had finished her instructions, the family scattered, and for several hours very successfully managed to show a reluctant Mr. Washington the dairy operation, and the resulting cheese, and a sampler that Aaron Burr was very near completing, and all the jams they were running low on until the next harvest, and eat a fairly dismal luncheon. Finally, so desperate were they for entertainment that even Mr. Schuyler sang a duet with his son-in-law.

Major General Washington was able to ascertain, over the course of these four hours, a good deal of information. He discerned very quickly that Mrs. Reynolds was the kind of woman who usually served in the army (Martha being a notable exception, to her sad misfortune), and that Peggy would very likely want to join up on her twenty-fifth birthday. He gathered that Aaron Burr was extremely solicitous regarding Theodosia, and did not wish to share her with Alexander, or even the extant Mr. Prevost. Of course he made no comment on the matter, for he was still as a deep font of water, but Mulligan knew him, and passed on this tidbit to Mr. Washington. In fact, it was owing to Mulligan that Washington went into the house full well knowing that Alexander was missing, and had been since the party, and that they had all called round, discreetly, to those in the neighborhood, but nobody had seen him, or been able to locate him. Mulligan also divulged that Mrs. Prevost was ill.

‘She was meant to call on us yesterday,’ he said. ‘And I baked two custard tarts for her tea, very fine, with a good short crust, and then along comes Aaron Burr, to tell me that she is unwell and will be unable to join us.’

‘A grave misfortune, indeed,’ intoned Washington.

‘That it is, sir, that it is,’ and then, espying Aaron he said, ‘I will see to your horse…?’

‘I call him Nelson,’ said Washington, and the horse, who was really too old to still be a warhorse, but whom the Major General found it impossible to retire, flared its nostrils as it heard its name spoken.

‘Aye,’ said Mulligan, ‘come along then. I have carrots, and maybe a lump of sugar, but I think but no oats for you, Mr. Nelson.’

‘Do not give him sugar,’ Washington called out, but Mulligan was already gone from view.

‘Sir, Aaron Burr, sir,’ said the young man, as he greeted Washington.

‘Of course,’ answered the Major General, and he bowed. ‘A pleasure to see you again.’

‘Will you come in, sir?’ asked Aaron, already leading the way.

Mrs. Schuyler and Angelica returned home as the desperate party were about to ask Mr. Washington if he played an instrument (he did not, unless the fife was to hand, and the only tunes he knew were from the army), when the door burst open.

Mrs. Schuyler was angrily taking off her bonnet, speaking without reserve to Angelica, who trotted after her dutifully.

‘A _grotesque_ law,’ she said, ‘an affront against free women everywhere, when everybody knows that a woman’s life is simply too valuable to risk, at any time, yes, but especially when she is at the prime age for childbearing. Why you only need to look at what happened to that Martha Washington—’

‘Mother,’ interrupted Angelica, with warning. ‘It would seem that we have a visitor.’

‘Oh,’ said Lady Catherine. Her face fell quickly; just as quickly, she picked it back up and reassembled it. ‘Major General, how do you do.' Washington stood; she offered her hand. He left his soft seat. She sat, then Angelica sat. A different chair, with a harder back, was procured for their guest.

After a time, when it became clear that Alexander was not now, nor would he ever be, joining them, Eliza and her sister shared a look, and Mr. and Mrs. Schuyler shared a look, and they made their apologies and departed the room, taking young John and still younger Peggy with them.

Mrs. Schuyler did not apologize for her remarks about Martha, which everybody had heard, but which had in due course summoned up a reserve of strong feeling in Major General Washington. 

His desire to be of service, to save somebody, anybody at all, derived in no small part from the loss of his wife. He kept this epiphany to himself, but he did say instead, ‘Lady Catherine, if you have need of my service it remains only to give the command and I will ride out. I am entirely at your disposal in this matter.’

‘You will have business with your regiment, surely?’ she said, always pragmatic. ‘With all that is afoot?’

‘The French have waited for fourteen years to attack us, Madam,’ said Mr. Washington with confidence. ‘I am certain they may be held at bay for another day or so while I see Mr. Schuyler safely returned to South End.

‘What think you, Angelica?’ asked Catherine of her eldest. ‘Share with us your views, for you are a married lady, now, and your word is worth so much more now.'

Outside the door, everybody but Aaron Burr was listening to the decision which Angelica made for the family. So, with that choice, which could have gone entirely the other way, depending entirely on her whim, so she sealed Alexander’s fate.

Angelica took a deep breath and then spoke very quickly. ‘We have delayed long enough,’ she announced to her mother and their guest, ‘I will take the carriage first thing tomorrow and away to Bath. We will stop at every tavern and inn between here and there, and leave word of Alexander, and his manner and appearance, and a pecuniary reward for his safe return. Furthermore we should tell Mrs. Prevost and Mrs. Church. They will send their riders and their servants to the north and the west. John and I are to the east, which means for you, Mr. Washington, the south will be your territory to scour to the best of your ability.’

‘I will depart at once,’ said Washington, and he stood. The Schuylers who had clustered like mice at once scuttled away from the door as he opened it and encountered their wide eyes and open mouths. ‘Good day to you Mrs. Schuyler. Lady Catherine. Ms. Eliza, Ms. Peggy, Mr. Schuyler, Mr. Schuyler. Give my regards to Aaron Burr; I cannot delay to say farewell to him.’

Mr. Mulligan met him around the side of the house with Nelson, who had, in fact, eaten five lumps of sugar, very happily from his hand, and who felt, if not entirely like a young horse again, then one in good spirits.

‘I have given you a bit of the custard tart, there,’ said Mulligan, indicating the bag of food, ‘though that you must eat at once. The rest of the food will not spoil. Our apples are either very early or very late, and the early ones are not fit for eating out of hand, so these are late, and may not be to your liking.’

‘I thank you,’ said Mr. Washington, as he swung himself decisively into the saddle and accepted the provisions. He passed Mulligan a whole half a crown, for his supplies and the dear information which he had smuggled so generously.

The afternoon shone very clear as Major General George Washington receded from the view of the inhabitants of South End, and they all resumed their regular worry for Alexander. Eliza twisted her napkin. Peggy ate three pieces of the custard tart, which should really have been saved for dinner. Mr. Schuyler fiddled nervously with his wedding ring. Mrs. Schuyler looked no one in the eye. Aaron Burr returned from his bedroom, saw Washington's absence and their anxiety, and went into the kitchen to fix everyone a much-needed cup of tea.   


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _An Innkeeper — A Makeshift Camp — Three Important Moments — A Poem_
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> (Without spoilering, I will warn for this chapter. It contains the answer of "what happened to Martha?" and may be upsetting. There is a line break in the text to set this part off if you would prefer to skip it.)

Washington rode Nelson at a steady pace until he had passed the fork where the River Toughy joins the River Wye on its journey to the Severn, and thence the Bristol Channel, and from there to the ocean. Together the waters splash and stream downhill, while the land flattens out into a hundred little parcels, whose women and men together tend it, and grow the grain for our bread, and raise the pigs for our soldiers to eat. He hewed close to the riverbank, surmising (correctly) that Alexander would have used it to navigate his path.

A border lay upon his left, an invisible line that ran straight through the middle of the river, and though the laws were the same, the language more or less identical, the border continued to exist in stories and popular imagination. The inhabitants of the towns on either side told stories to their children of what would happen, if they ventured a step too far across it. But Washington was of course a man grown, and while he knew that borders did of course matter (one need only look to the line of demarcation, which has caused so much trouble of late!), this one was for all intents and purposes, meaningless. At the very least, it had been five hundred years since any man lost his life over the defense of it.

Thus when he came upon a small waystation which happened to be on the other side he thought little of fording the water at its shallowest point. Upon arriving at the tavern, which was the only place of its kind near the crossing the locals referred to as De La Warr, he hitched his horse outside, and went in to inquire if anyone had seen a man of the following description: about twelve stone and reaching a height just below his own shoulder, reasonably compact in his person, of an all-around middling size. He had silky black hair and eyes to match, and what might be (generously) called an attempt at a beard. He would have travelled on foot, and might be wearing the clothes of a common man so as to disguise himself — though of course we know that he had done no such clever, practical thing.

‘No, sir,’ said the woman who ran the place, a stout and sullen lady who was called Ross. ‘Haven’t seen a man of that description, unless you mean the Webster boy, and he lives but a mile south of here. Don’t see what business he would have with running away. What’re you having, sir?’

Though he lacked the desire for drink, Washington felt it only polite to offer the innkeeper some of his custom. He sat and placed an order for half pint of the dark beer, which, upon enquiry, he learnt that she brewed herself, and was actually rather good, as well as being nourishing enough to serve in place of food as he continued his search. He paid, left, and unhitched Nelson, whereupon they rode out into the green damp of the late afternoon.

Being accustomed to a soldier’s life and responsibilities, it is fair to say that Washington was neither huntsman nor woodsman nor ranger. On his own estate and in the surrounding areas was he master of all he surveyed. There under every tree he had passed an hour, in meditation or with his Psalms; every path he had trod, by foot or on the back of his mount. He knew the birds which flew south in the autumn and who returned in the springtime full to the brim with song. If a twig snapped a mile from Mount Vernon, then Washington would hear it. If a dog whelped, he wanted to know. Though he spent so much of his time away, through regular and complete correspondence with his steward, he kept up his interest in home affairs. But in a strange landscape such as this, all he could trust were his two eyes and his wits, and the older he grew, the more his concern that both were falling into disrepair. Alexander had left a trail of clues in his wake (broken twigs, bent branches, the snapped-off heel of a shoe, a gentle dusting of oats) which a ranger — with superb skills such as the late General Martha Washington had possessed — might have noticed but which the widower Washington did not. Yet he rode on, hopeful in his conviction that a man on foot would not be able to outpace his horse.

Sunset comes late in June, but Washington was ever cautious and struck camp early. He bivouacked between a large shale rock, which served as cover from the road, and a circle of large oak trees. The ground beneath them was still moist from the misty rains, but the trees were of such a height, their roots so thirsty, that the blanket which he unfurled from beneath Nelson’s saddle was enough to keep the damp from his clothing. As he removed the bit and bridle, he spoke with his horse, and when that task was finished, he leaned back against the rock and the two shared their meal. The custard tart that Mulligan had made was a bit squashed, but in all other ways excellent, and Washington reminded himself to pay it a proper compliment when he saw the man again. Every man likes to hear such praise of his cooking, especially from a handsome gentleman soldier.

As the night drew in close around Washington and Nelson like a curtain round a canopy bed, Alexander was stumbling his way into a hayloft. There he made himself a bed of straw, which had the advantage of being dry, as well as reasonably soft, but which in turn made him sneeze with such excessive force that he roused the horses and agitated them. As a result he was discovered by the farmer’s husband, and subsequently chased out with a pitchfork into the dark night.

Bits of straw clung to the back of Alexander’s jacket. He got as far away as he could whilst sneezing, very violently, into Mr. Washington’s handkerchief, which was (like Alexander himself), very much worse for having been so abused during this adventure. At last he found a patch of moss that was spongy beneath his fingertips as he lowered his body (which by this point ached very badly and was racked with chills and fever) onto the ground. For reference, we will clarify that he had ventured a bit west of the place where the river loops in upon itself at the Parva crossing and was thus well away from the town’s settlement, on a small and inconsequential northern riverbank of the trickle known as the Anghidi. His mouth, which he had never been in the habit of closing at any time since he was a very small boy, remained open while he slept.

Washington rose early, as the sun was casting watery light in streaks of pink across the sky. Breakfast was cold, camp packed up quickly. He saddled his horse and they rode down. They stayed to the path rather than the road, but these two converged again just to the north of the Tintern Parva, which put Washington back onto the route that Alexander had trod the night before. It was a cool day, with every shade and every colour a person might wish to see represented in the landscape, so long as that colour was green.

Now, we will observe that men, as a rule, are not often inclined to make the mental connections between events in their pasts and those in their future, or, indeed, their present. Washington — despite his many virtues and fine qualities, was rarely given to introspection or self-reflection. While he would not contradict you, if you were to point out a certain similarity between the past and the present, or the continuities, between the person he used to be and the person he was now — the man himself failed to make those imaginative leaps. Nor did he realize, as we do here, that the critical moments of his life had all occurred on the bank of a river, although one of these had not yet come to pass.

Three makes a tale, so they say. And, in keeping with that adage, so we will provide the three instances where a moment on a riverbank changed the course of George’s life. (We cannot ascertain with any certainty at this particular moment in time, if there will be a fourth. It will very likely depend on the narrative.)

The first was when he was a boy on the cusp of manhood. He was the only son of a poor family by the name of Custis, who had been taught only what limited means could provide. As a matter of due course, he worked the farm with his mother and father, and grew strong, and was in time noticed by our scouts. On the last day of his fourteenth year he parted from them on the banks of the Thames to join the rest of the new recruits in Jersey. His mother Mary cried not at all, his father Augustine a great deal, and young George somewhere in between the two.

The second time was when he was a young man of five and twenty, and held the rank of Lt. Colonel, his body finally beginning to show the heft of ten years of hard training. He had been sitting on a rock, overlooking the lesser of the canals. George had finished his work early, for he had begun it early, and was seated beside the booted feet of his General on her right-hand side. General Martha Washington was sharpening her knives, of which she had many. This she did daily, on the quick with a stone in her barracks, but on laundry day, she would gather a pail of water and sit by the riverbank while the men did the washing, alternating oil, water, and whetstone until her blades gleamed, and the merest prick of one against a finger would draw blood.

It was a cold spring morning, the kind of day when the sun promises to shine bright enough for a picnic or an outing, but whenever it passes behind a cloud, everybody is left shivering and full of regret at their mistaken optimism. They were not out of doors to take pleasure, however, for it was laundry day. And so the men were washing their bedding and the hospital linens in the river, letting the water take them in a swirl and eddy, then wringing them out and beating them against the walls of the canals, and the rocks on the riverbank. They did this in bare feet, their trousers rolled up to their knees — though some wore no trousers at all, some no shirts, and one, the tallest and whitest man among them (called Collins), wore nothing at all, like a true savage.

‘Tell me, Knox,’ said Collins with a hearty laugh, as if he were preemptively amused by a joke of his own devising. ‘Do you shave your legs in order to keep them so smooth? Or is that, despite the size of your stones, you cannot grow any hair there?’

‘Badly said!’ said his fellow officer, whose body really did appear as if it had been carved from rock, so free was it from unsightly hair or mark or blemish. ‘At least I am fortunate enough to have a back free of the stuff!’

‘It is true,’ their comrade Greene shouted, his voice loud over the slap of wet cloth against rock. ‘For an entertainment, perhaps we may give you a ball to stand upon and call the men in to see the dancing bear in action!’

Martha laughed at this, a bright peal that was swallowed by the water. In time the men finished their work, and lay their linens along the bank to dry, chattering all the while. George did not join them. Even at the age of twenty-five he had been shy, incapable of the rowdy teasing and banter that the men kept up at all times when they were not asleep.

‘You may be dismissed,’ Martha had said, to Knox, Greene, and Collins. ‘Colonel Custis will keep me company while I finish, and he will collect the bedding when it has dried.’ Her cloth smoothly moved across the blade. When the men realized that she intended to keep her focus there, rather than upon them, left Martha and George to their own devices, sitting there on the side of the riverbank. Collins in particular did not bother to dress before he walked away. Martha then watched him go with interest.

‘Tell me,’ said the woman whose widower he had yet to become, ‘what will you do after the war?’

Young Mr. Custis ducked his head, for he had no answer to her question. He longed to go back, and yet, at the same time, he wanted never to return. The army was not freedom, for conscription never can be, but he was well-fed, and housed with his comrades, and able to take lovers or be a lover as any man in camp saw fit. After all, there was no need for secrecy. For when you have fought alongside a man, shed blood of common enemies beside him, then it only seems right that if, after the heat of such a battle, when the wounds have been tended to and the toasts drunk, then under cover of darkness any man would bed who he wished, and come morning no more would be said on the matter.

For the women, so many fewer in number, but there all the same, there was the certain pleasure of knowing they would never have to bear children. A pregnancy should always be undertaken with the utmost care and caution, and these were women for whom caution was a watchword for misery — even boredom.

Martha Washington differed from these other military women on only a single point, and it was that she preferred a man in her tent after a battle; or perhaps before one; and, if it were in any way logical or possible to do so, even during. That spring morning on the riverbank, Martha Washington leaned over and kissed George Custis, who was, at twenty-five, eight years her junior and before long, he was the one visiting her quarters or her command tent several times a day.

The third time was where we meet him now, as he rides into view: gravely scanning the horizon for signs of his quarry. On the fourth day since Alexander had foresaken his home, and left all that he knew behind him — when his mistress was to London and his other mistress was to Bath and his two sisters were worried sick over his disappearance, and his supposed friend, Aaron Burr, was even now setting a course of action that was to be wholly borne out by Theodosia — on the fourth day that Alexander was lost, he was at last found.

That morning he had slept very long, even past his usual hour. The sun dawned with gray cloud and a sticky chill in the air. It is evil weather under the best of circumstances, but ever so much more so when one is ill or sleeping rough out of doors; or thus people claim.

Alexander woke himself up by coughing so violently that tears sprang to his eyes. He had curled into a ball during the night, and his legs were numb from lying too long in this position. When he attempted to move them, he found that they weighed approximately as much as an iron ball of cannon shot and that they must then, unfortunately, stay where they were. He could, only barely, reach beneath his head to make certain that his pack was still there. He felt the reassuring lump of his books and inkpot and breathed a sigh of relief. His nose was stopped up from cold, which was just as well, as the bag smelled of damp meat and wet paper, and a trace, however faint but indisputable, of dog.

Washington slowed his horse to a canter, as he did not want to startle the unmoving lump upon the riverbank, which even at a distance he could take for a man.

‘Sir!’ said Washington, as he rode up to encounter the lump which we, of course, know to be Alexander. ‘Sir, can you hear me? I am looking for someone: a young man, of a compact height, approximately twelve stone in size, with very dark hair, and eyes to match, and a beard upon him, dressed as a traveller or perhaps as—’

And here he noticed the man’s clothing, which was not covered by cloak or blanket, but which was laid out in the open, plain as day, for any woman to see and take notice of, for of course it is skillfully designed with our appreciations in mind.

His shoes were of black leather, a good quality but by now very scuffed. The right one was missing its heel. The stockings were woven of fine white silk, which would be secured by garters beneath the green velvet trousers. These were cut, as is the fashion and the favourite amongst those women who prefer the lower half of a man’s body to the upper half in their admirations, very slim through the leg. The back of the dark silken jacket was stained with sweat, and rainwater, and with bits of straw still clinging to it, and which had spread upwards to also nest in his hair, which was very dirty, and lacked its usual lustre. 

‘Alexander!’ Washington called, from his horse, and then, when he realized his familiarity, pulled up his horse to curb his excitement. He dismounted and strode forward, shouting, ‘Mr. Schuyler!’ So agitated was he that he dropped Nelson’s reins in haste, and it was only because Nelson was very loyal, and stumbled upon a wonderful clump of red clover, that he did not lose his horse.

It was, he realized as he turned the man onto his back, the one he had been sent to look for. The one he had practically begged to retrieve as errand, and whose sight flooded his heart with relief. 

'Mr. Schuyler!' he shook Alexander from his sleep. 

‘Burr’s turn for porridge,’ Alexander said, and swatted at his nose with the palm of his hand, as if a fly had got into his nostril. His cheeks were very flushed, his mouth as red as an apple in a fairy tale. It is not the time or the place for impure thoughts, but as Mr. Washington had them, at that particular juncture, we will note them for the account.

But of course he yielded not to temptation, and continued shaking the man’s prone body with his large hands. ‘Mr. Schuyler,’ Washington repeated, this time with some urgency. ‘Can you hear me? Are you able to stand? Are you ill? Mr. Schuyler?’

Alexander spoke aloud, again. But his words were hardly an answer, coming, as they did from the long-lost poem he had composed eleven years ago, and whose words he sometimes recited to himself, as a kind of verbal talisman, a protection against evil, and a prayer for deliverance —  _Oh! impotent presumptuous fool! how durst thou offend that Omnipotence, whose nod alone were sufficient to quell the destruction that hovers over thee, or crush thee into atoms? See thy wretched helpless state, and learn to know thyself. Learn to know thy best support. Despise thyself, and adore thy God.’_

‘I must take you to shelter,’ Washington said with alarm, and he looked around for his horse. Nelson typically came when whistled for, and he did, though he managed to tuck away five good mouthfuls before Washington clicked his tongue and snapped fingers at him.

‘’M fine,’ said Alexander, his next words sussurating across his dry and parted lips. ‘Please, doctor, my mother is the one who needs you. I can find a way to pay you when we arrive at our destination. Her family is there, they will see you are compensated. Please, _please.’_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

So we will here reiterate that Washington felt a pang deep in the well of his gut, for he had been in this position once before, when Martha’s child was breach, and the man who was pressed into service as their surgeon, a Mr. McHenry, who was very skilled with dislocated shoulders and shallow flesh wounds in need of stitches, had no business delivering a baby. He had done it before, six years earlier, and that time it had been very easy going. It was only because of the blockade that Martha had deemed it too much of a risk to try and sail her safely west to a proper hospital.

Not a day had passed since then that Washington did not chastise himself, inwardly cursing his acquiescence in this matter. A man should insist on the life of the woman in every case. Yes, without a doubt, when a child could be born safely, then of course it should be born. It might be a girl, after all. But it was hardly the same as the loss of the life of a woman, who might live to bear another daughter, or compose a treatise on inflammation, or translate Agnesi’s book of mathematics from the Italian, or discover a method for mechanising looms, or refining the sap of the rubber plant, or hold great office, or write a play that spoke to the human condition, or become a doctor and bring hundreds more healthy babies into this world. But Martha had been stubborn, even more than George was; — yes, even _tenfold_ as stubborn as Alexander, and when she had laid down her word as law, no persuasion, no entreaty, no pledge of love or fealty, no expression of fear would be enough to transform her mind. It was a fixed object, and it was a noble tactic for a general; — to refuse to back down from a fight of any size or importance.

And so when Alexander mentioned his mother, though of course he was partly unconscious, and partly in dream, which was where he saw her, in his sicknesses, when the veil between the worlds is thin, and shades draw upon us, then we are at our most vulnerable to suggestion.

The blood drained George Washington’s face, and he gave it not a moment’s thought before he removed his own cloak as a kind of wrap. This he laid upon the ground and, with a movement that was inelegant in appearance but effective in manner, rolled Alexander onto in and then folded it around him. He knelt, then, in the soft moss, and grabbed hold of Alexander’s arm as he hoisted him over his shoulder. Alexander winced at the pain, for every fibre of his muscles burned with cold ice, and movement only exacerbated the sensation.

In his hand, still, he clutched tightly to the handkerchief. Washington attempted to remove it from his grasp, and Alexander snuffled a protest at this action, and so it remained there, all the long ride back along the riverbank.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Conversation with the Patient — Mr. Washington is Patient — Alexander is Not — Reading Aloud_

There was a rustle of the bedclothes. From the bedstead a long sigh emanated, and then a voice, congested in its manner but clear in its intentions, said, ‘Sir, I do not wish to criticize. But —’

‘There is always that,’ intoned another voice, rich with amusement, from its position on a chair in the corner of the room.

‘But, and I heartily apologize, but it must be said, that you really do read much too slowly. My mind rushes ahead to complete the thoughts as they are written on the page, and very often I finish the sense of them before you have even got through so much as the first clause.’

‘There are many complicated words in this treatise, Mr. Schuyler. I would not wish to omit them simply so that the line scans better. However, if it will keep your restlessness in check, then I will do so. I am sure your mind, which, as you have mentioned on more than one occasion, is very penetrating, will be able to readily supply that which I leave out.' 

Alexander blew his nose with a honking sound. ‘Well,’ he said, his voice a bit clearer now as he laid back against the headboard. He folded his hands in his lap and closed his eyes, then opened them again and blinked at Mr. Washington. ‘Well, if that is to be my alternative, then I suppose I can countenance your choice of in favor of retaining the sense. I suppose that I must. That being said, a more rapid pace is preferable if you are able to manage it.’

They stared at one another across the room. No consensus was reached. Mr. Washington re-opened the book to the place he had marked it with a finger. ‘Your agitation has been duly noted, Mr. Schuyler. Shall I continue?’

‘Yes, I suppose you had better,’ he said, making as if to settle himself down in the bedclothes. However, he immediately then sat up again, now on his elbows, ‘but I still do not see why I cannot have the book myself. Surely I can pass the time quietly in this manner, and if I need to make annotations in the margins, it will make a good deal more sense for me to have the physical object in hand.’

Once again, Mr. Washington closed the book on his pointer finger, which was by this point quite sore from the tome being repeatedly shut upon it. At this rate they would not finish the chapter before the first frost. ‘I am sure when Dr. Bailey visits this afternoon she will be able to answer your many questions on the matter. You will be the first to know when you can hold a pen, and I will be there to hand it to you, but on this I bow to her wisdom, and suggest you do the same.’ All told, Mr. Washington was surprisingly patient in his response, given that this exact same exchange had taken place every few hours since Alexander had regained his senses four days ago.

‘For instance,’ Alexander continued, by now sitting up entirely and this time gesturing at the bedside table, upon which were stacked messy pages of his drawings: views he had taken of the room, its sparse furnishings, and its other occupant — who had, we must hasten to add, made his nightly camp at the foot of the bed on a bedroll, fully clothed, and over the past few nights had slept little, uneasy in his rest for concern over the regularity of Alexander’s breathing while he slept, which was part of the reason that he now read very slowly, as his tired eyes continually closed against the ongoing blur of the letters — drawings in pen and pencil which were exceptionally mediocre in their execution, but which did capture the nobility of the Major General’s profile (though not his exquisite  hands, for Alexander had never been able to master the trick of drawing hands, and so always omitted them for the sake of his own vanity), ‘for the record I must ask her why should I be able to draw pictures but not write? That seems profoundly illogical to my mind. The one is so much more difficult than the other!’

‘Perhaps it is, in fact, your mind which worries the good Doctor,’ said Mr. Washington, who had, over the course of these four days, become very intimate with Alexander’s mind, its sharp twists, its dizzying heights, its restless agitation, and his moods, which were of much the same _métier_.

Alexander was installed as comfortably as he could be at the public rooms above the tavern which Mr. Washington had passed the day prior to his rescue. The room had been taken on his own account, as were the visits by Dr. Bailey, who was extremely old-fashioned in her beliefs about men, and severely chastized Alexander for his stupidity without any compunction. Writing, she thought, and said, was no occupation for a man, but if he needed to exercise his intellect (such as it was), then a more soothing pursuit such as sketching would be, if not entirely restful, then at least more appropriate.

However, she was a fine medic, and with poultices, cordials, and compresses, ably curtailed the illness that, had Mr. Washington not located him, would have set into his lungs. If he had lain there to sweat out his sickness upon the riverbank, who can say if he would have felt better for a time, until the cold settled upon his chest, and with no recourse to medicine, would have been left, at the very least, with a perpetual shortness of breath and a murmur in his heart, or much worse, a rapid decline — another hayloft, a kind farmer with quick wits, but alas, too late to save him!

Luckily for us, Alexander regained his strength. The days with Mr. Washington had passed in rest and remedies: hot tisanes of witch hazel and elderflower; warm cloths soaked in lavender water which were laid upon his forehead; cool bowls of baked semolina with raspberry jam and fresh goats’ milk; a cold bath of eucalyptus and yarrow, into which Alexander was plunged, his limbs rigid and fine strong teeth bared like a cat, just as unhappy to be immersed in the depths of the water, thrashing and soaked and angry. Mrs. Ross rubbed him dry with fluffy towels and dabbed goldenrod and mint on his chest, and left him wrapped in blankets in front of the fire. 

Letters were sent to South End, messages were received from all and sundry, and read aloud, their more deleterious passages omitted for the sake of Alexander’s health. Angelica interrupted her honeymoon to thoroughly scold him in so many words. Philip offered a host of suggestions, garnered from Mulligan and his own experiences, which might help ease the passage to wellness. Eliza was heartsick, and would be coming to fetch Alexander in place of her mother, who was to town to vote on the special bills which Mrs. Adams and her allies had brought before Parliament: the first concerned the expulsion of foreigners, the second the conscription of men and women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six, and the last calling for a treaty settling the ownership of the lands east of Calais to Britain, which was very likely to provoke even stronger retribution. Mrs. Schuyler spared him a few short lines, noted her displeasure, reaffirmed the attachment to Mrs. Prevost, which Aaron Burr also hinted at in his own letter, though his was a suggestion similar to that Theodosia herself had raised at the dance. He also insinuated, in so many words, that time was of the essence, and that he would perhaps soon be a father; if Alexander would cease being so stubborn, so relentlessly intransigent, then they might embark on this new adventure of parenthood together, side by side.

That letter made Alexander very flustered, and Mr. Washington deeply unsettled. Plans formed in his mind as he later watched Alexander sleep, firelight flickering across his young face. He wrote a letter to Adrienne, his steward, and another to his young friend Lafayette, and proposed suggestions of his own for the sake of poor, unhappy, endlessly trapped Alexander.

The patient slept, uneasily at first, and then when his fever finally broke, much more soundly. Mr. Washington read the newspapers and wrote volumes of correspondence and stared off into the middle distance and dozed in his chair. Every day the French situation grew worse. They were asking him to return to the garrison, and, if it came to that, to lead their envoy if an attack came to pass. This would make his attachment more fraught, and nearly impossible to sustain in a manner that would strike us at least, as intimate. Alexander had no place on the lines of battle, even as a camp follower. His health was too poor, his stature too weak for him to accompany the Major General anywhere but to a good home with a strong fire and a well-stocked library.

Let it also be said that Mr. Washington, like all people who have made the military their career, enjoyed his job much more in times of peace. A road to build, a canal to fortify, a well to dig, game to hunt, songs to sing — all of these were preferable to the stench of battle, and worse, the boredom of waiting for it all to begin. He forlornly hoped that diplomacy would do the trick. Ms. Sampson had been sent to negotiate with their leaders, and was accompanied by a number of his own comrades to lend her credence, for the French (as Angelica had been so often in the habit of noting, and very right she was in this regard), did not believe in so much as the equality of the sexes, but rather only the false equality between certain kinds of men.

Long ago we realized that, unlike the endless battles waged on the flat plain of the lowlands, their convictions would not be swayed by decisive victory. If they wanted men, well, so they would receive them! The very broadest and tallest of our men, the mettle of men who made Major General Washington appear small in size, which, from the perspective of a man so compact as Alexander, would hardly seem possible, but, we assure you, reader, is very much the truth.

To return to Alexander, he was understandably restless at being so cooped up. ‘My mind is perfectly well, I assure you,’ said the patient, who disliked Dr. Bailey, her cold hands and even colder attitude.

‘I will leave that for you and she to work out amongst yourselves,’ Mr. Washington said, with a decided air. ‘Now, shall I continue, or do you wish to sleep? It is very nearly tea-time, and I am sure Mrs. Ross may be able to prepare you something.’

‘Dry toast and weak tea!’ scoffed Alexander, who had regained his appetite in full, and was tired of the fare given to old men, invalids, and new mothers.

‘Soup, then?’ Mr. Washington asked.

‘It is too hot for soup,’ Alexander retorted, and crossed his arms angrily in front of his chest. ‘It is nearly July! Soup!’ And now, dissatisfied with one thing, he continued on in order to mention all the rest which laid heavy upon his mind. ‘Really, sir, must we still have a fire? I find the room very close, do you not? Or at the very least you might take it upon yourself to open a window, even a crack?’

‘The draughts—’ began Mr. Washington.

He snorted in response. ‘Pish! You sound like Mr. Schuyler, always so very worried about the draughts. What is it with this country and the overwhelming fear of fresh air? In St. Croix —’ and there he stopped himself, for he found that he wanted to tell Mr. Washington about St. Croix, or rather, he wanted him to know about it without actually having to be involved, himself, in the telling, and so he caught himself short, and the words at last ceased to pour from his chapped lips.

Very levelly the exasperated reader said, ‘You have caught cold the once already, Mr. Schuyler. The room is kept warm on the good doctor's orders. If you wish to raise the matter to debate then I suggest you do so with her.’ The Major General allowed Alexander to stew in his agitation and dropped the subject. ‘I will continue,’ he said, opening the book again, ‘until the end of this chapter, and then I must also rest.’

‘No!’ cried Alexander. ‘Oh, at least through the next, if — if you would be so good.’

‘That is nearly twenty pages,’ said Mr. Washington, flipping ahead to check. ‘My voice will give out before we have finished it, and then, I think, you will be doubly agitated upon not knowing how it ends.’

‘That is true,’ Alexander conceded, and then, very magnanimously said, ‘very well, you may read until your voice tires, and after that you are free to do what you like.’

‘Thank you.’ Mr. Washington was oddly pleased by this condescension, and picked up anew the treatise.

After four pages Alexander snuggled himself down into the blankets. At the seventh page he had closed his eyes, and on the tenth he turned onto his side with a soft little grunt. Mr. Washington read a few lines more, skipping over all of the words of more than two syllables, and when these omissions did not provoke any response from Alexander, so did he lay the book aside, and also rest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr [@pitcherplant.](pitcherplant.tumblr.com) Shouting, questions, and headcanons about this universe are very much enjoyed by the author.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eliza Arrives — Happy Tears — A Room in the Garret — Alexander's Sick Bed_

As they had anticipated from her letter, which preceded her arrival by only a few hours, Eliza came to them later that evening. The clock had chimed six times. Hardworking women and men alike began to amass in the public rooms. Upstairs, Alexander had just been handed his nightly cup of bone broth by Mr. Washington, who had taken ardent precautions to ensure that it was not too hot by blowing on it, and was most solicitous in helping Alexander sit up in his nest of blankets to drink it — when they heard footsteps race across the landing, and Mrs. Ross shouting, ‘I know you are expected, but for Heaven’s sake, let me announce you! Give the men their privacy! Ms. Schuyler!’

The door burst open to reveal Eliza, panting and flushed from her speedy traipse up the stairs and away from Mrs. Ross’ attentions. She exclaimed, ‘Alexander!’ and ran directly to him. Mr. Washington promptly withdrew from the bed, taking the cup of broth with him, and allowed them their space. He stood somewhat awkwardly off to the side. The cup was very hot in his hand at this point, but he did not want to interrupt their conversation. Also he did not know where else to put it.

She grasped Alexander’s hand, and so taken was she with strong emotion that she kissed it, and then kissed it again. ‘There you are!’ she said, and there were tears in her eyes when she said this, so relieved she was, so exquisitely, relievedly, blessedly happy! She squeezed his hand very tightly and after a ladylike sniff, for tears become no woman, continued. ‘We have all been so very worried about you, dear Alexander! But you have been rescued by Mr. Washington, and now you are safe. Such a relief!’ Ever polite, she turned to the one who had accomplished this small feat of heroism, and paid him thanks. ‘On behalf of my mother and sisters and father, Major General, please allow me to thank you a thousand times over for this service you have rendered us.’

Normally, Mr. Washington would have bowed upon receipt of this compliment, but as his hands were still occupied with the cup, and the contents of that cup were still boiling hot, and as he had only the one set of clothes with him, and he preferred to keep his shirt free of spills, he settled for a sort of pensive yet affirmative shake of the head. It looked graceful only because he himself was in possession of that quality. Alexander watched his movements with keen interest, and only after an interval of some moments had passed, did he then notice that Eliza was scrutinizing him with a curious expression on her face.

Alexander’s eyes flashed with an unnameable emotion, which, for lack of a word to call it, can best be described as being partway between ardor and anger. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Yes, thank you, Mr. Washington, for returning me to my situation. My mistress must find a way to compensate you for saving her so much trouble, for I seem to incur nothing but.’ And then he set his mouth in a firm line and glowered — very attractively did he do so, but he glowered nonetheless.

Mr. Washington’s did not answer Alexander directly, for he caught the sour edge of his tone, as harsh as an unripe lemon. His own voice was thick when he spoke, though he naturally affected a casual air. ‘It was my pleasure, Ms. Eliza, to see your brother safely brought to this place of shelter. Mrs. Ross has seen to his every comfort, and Dr. Bailey has been here every day to ascertain after his health. I have spent every night by his side to ensure that he sleeps through the night, and though it was a very evil illness, which prevented him from resting, he seems to be much better at present.’

‘How good of you!’ said Eliza. She moved sit on the bed, and Alexander shifted to accommodate her. Mr. Washington watched them together, so familiar and comfortable in one another’s company, and felt out of place. To Alexander she then said, ‘You have been most fortunate to have been caught out, you silly goose. With your health as it is, you should have known better than to attempt such foolishness. I cannot stand to contemplate the thought of anything bad happening to you, which of course it would have, in time. Whatever did you leave us for, Alexander?’

The bedbound patient shut his eyes as if he were contemplating a complex problem of mathematics and said, wearily, ‘I am sure you already know the answer to that question, sweet Eliza. But if not, then you may take this opportunity to tell me: how fares Mrs. Prevost? And how does Mr. Burr take my absence?’

She quailed at this effrontery. ‘It will not do for me to say that she is pleased—’ she began, and then, remembering that they were not alone, said, coolly, ‘but perhaps we can discuss this matter in due time on the ride back to South End. I will stay the night here, and then we may with no hesitation depart after breakfast tomorrow. I am sure you,’ and here she meant Mr. Washington, ‘are anxious to return to your lodgings in Monmouth, and then of course to return to your garrison. So much has happened in such a short time! Mother has made ample mention of it, though of course — well of course, dear me, you are a man of the world! Of course you have seen the papers?’

She surmised correctly; he had indeed seen the papers. If the truth be told he was infinitely more concerned about the waiting fate of his steward — who was considered French by birth (this was a complicated matter of maternity that we will not, for the moment, touch upon), as well as the fate of her lover, the very same snooty Marquis who had been tutor to John Church, now Schuyler, and who was definitively French, not to mention a titled aristocrat at that — than he was with his own future maneuvers. An outbreak of immanent war (for war it was to be) frightened him very much less than that which he saw in Alexander’s eyes: a condemnation, a plea for help, and desire, of a kind he had been unaffected by since Martha was ripped so cruelly from this world and dragged unwilling into the next.

‘Yes,’ said he, a strange pain welling up in his chest. It felt a bit like indigestion. ‘I have seen them.’ And then he spoke up on an entirely different matter. ‘Dr. Bailey was here just this morning,’ he said, and Alexander frowned slightly at him as he spoke. Verily speaking, she had been there yesterday, and declared that in a day or two he would be fit to travel, even without her leave, which meant he could easily depart upon the morrow. But Mr. Washington offered a falsehood instead of the honest truth. ‘She thought it best if he stay put until she has given her approval.’

Now it was Eliza’s turn to frown. ‘I am very surprised, Mr. Washington,’ said she, ‘for the letter I received yesterday seemed to indicate that Alexander was well on his way to recovery.’

The Major General cleared his throat. ‘That is very much the case,’ he said, but as he had bent the truth to his own advantage, he went on to say, ‘it is now Monday, and I think, if we call for her on Wednesday, then by, perhaps Friday at the latest — we may safely return to your mother’s.’

From his position in the bed, Alexander watched their conversation with keen interest, and, to his credit, a deep concern for Mr. Washington’s poor and — by now very scorched — hands. Prior to Eliza’s arrival, he had been very much looking forward to his mealtime. Poor fare though it was, he had come to enjoy the ritual of dinnertime immensely. Mrs. Ross would bring the porridge, or broth, or semolina, or dry toast to the door, and Mr. Washington would take it from her, with many thanks. Then he would pull his chair close, or even better, sit beside Alexander upon the narrow bed. He would assist in pulling his hair back from his face so that it did not catch crumbs or liquid, and help him to sit up against the pillows, and tie a napkin around his neck with great deliberateness.

Despite his massive size his movements were extremely delicate, and the brush of a hand against his hair or, in passing, the back of his neck, would make Alexander shiver, despite the blaze of the fire in the grate and the ever-present closeness of the room. The meal was taken at a leisurely pace, with Mr. Washington sitting patiently and assisting Alexander, as needed, with his plate or cup or bowl or spoon. They would not speak at all while Alexander ate, and though Mr. Washington ate nothing himself, a sensation of hunger radiated from his person. The reading aloud which followed he also enjoyed, though he complained. He was a poor patient, if we are being honest, but it came from a place of love. 

In answer to his proposition Eliza said, ‘Well that seems sensible enough, Mr. Washington. I will have the coachman bring in my things, which I had thought to bring in case of stopping over, and some of yours as well, Alexander. Of course you may enquire if there is another room to let. I am sure you will be glad to be relieved of your duties as nurse, which must have taxed your patience.’ To Alexander she said, fondly, ‘I hope you were not too difficult a patient, were you?’

He shook his head and ‘I have been a model of sickly decorum, I assure you,’ and Mr. Washington recognized this as a joke, aimed at improving his humour, but it did not have the intended effect. Indeed, he felt more ill-tempered than before.

She gestured, then, for the cup, and took it from him. Then she fluffed the pillows behind Alexander’s head, and helped him to drink his broth. Having nothing left to do, and no more service to render, Mr. Washington did bow, then, and escorted himself downstairs to enquire after the possibility of a room to let for two, possibly three or at most four, more nights.

A room there was to be had, in the garret. Mrs. Ross showed him to it. So tall was he that he nearly touched the eaves. Mr. Washington sat on the bed for a while, which was softer than the floor on which he had been sleeping, but nevertheless felt uncomfortable. He crossed his legs and sat for a time on the floor, and worked to regulate his laboured breathing and the discomfiture of his mind. That seemed to help very little. He completed a few bouts of strengthening exercises against the hard wood of the floor, and which made clean sweat spring up upon his brow. Finally, feeling somewhat better, he visited his horse in the stables, and next stopped in at the public rooms for a glass of good beer, and finally returned to Alexander’s chambers to find Eliza firmly ensconced in the room, seated in the chair which he had come to think of, over the past five days, as his own, an embroidery sampler in hand, and Alexander himself sat up in the bed, eating sweets, and quite happily reading a book, all by himself!

‘Mr. Schuyler!’ he effused with disappointment, ‘you are reading!’ It had not occurred to him that Eliza would permit this, or that his role as narrator would be so abruptly snatched away. 

Eliza glanced up from her sewing, which was really Alexander’s own. He hated doing it, however, and she (in all contradiction to the graces naturally bestowed by her sex) enjoyed the mindless labour, and found it rather calming to do while he read.

Alexander looked up, guiltily. The room was silent, save for the crunch of a boiled sweet finding its unhappy end between Alexander's sharp teeth. He licked his sticky fingers and said with some passion, ‘She said it was all right!’ He pointed, very rudely, at Eliza. 

‘Is there a problem, Mr. Washington?’ asked Eliza, who was of course unaware of the injunction against reading which Dr. Bailey had laid down, and Mr. Washington’s own dislike for sweets in general.

‘No,’ he said, curtailing the wave of emotion which washed over him. ‘I have merely come to wish you both a good night.’

As he was turning to leave, Alexander piped up, ‘Eliza,’ he said, and so artfully did he make the suggestion that she did not notice his designs, ‘would you see if Mrs. Ross can prepare a glass of hot milk for me? Perhaps with a bit of brandy in it? And nutmeg, if she has any to hand? And honey? And perhaps fetch more water for the basin, as my hands are now very sticky?’

She sighed at the request, but it was a fond sigh. Her mood was soft that evening, her temper even and such that she was willing to indulge Alexander in everything he demanded. Eliza got up, just as Alexander had hoped she would, and walked past the standing figure of the Major General and out the door of the bedroom, and thus went downstairs in search of his preferred refreshment. Mr. Washington and Alexander were at last quite alone with one another, as they had come to be accustomed to over the past week.

They stared at one another. Something was about to happen which would change both their lives forever.

‘Sit,’ said Alexander, and Mr. Washington, who was extremely good at being ordered about, sat.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Common Cat and A Royal One — Martha’s Dilemma — A Proposal, Of Sorts — Eliza Is Surprised, Again_

The fire popped in the grate. A light breeze blew in through the windows, which had been thoughtfully opened by Eliza. Raucous laughter seeped up from the public rooms below. Across the way in the stables, Nelson chewed thoughtfully on his mouthful of hay. A pure black cat, as fluffy as the blown-out head of a dandelion, watched him with increasing boredom. This cat, who was called Phoebe by Mrs. Ross, was something of a celebrity amongst the locals, being in nearly every respect an identical copy of the Queen Mother’s black Turkish Angora, who bore the given name Artemis —that designation being reserved for the exclusive use of the Royal family. Mrs. Ross’ cat at last decided to search for a snack of her own, and stalked away from the barn and across the road, where she jumped lightly from the ground up to the sill and in through the open window of the tavern. She went into the kitchens, where Eliza was patiently waiting for Alexander's evening libation.

Upstairs, the silence was becoming faintly ridiculous.

At last the small bedridden man spoke. ‘Mr. Washington,’ said Alexander.

And the silent warrior answered him. ‘Mr. Schuyler,’ said George.

Alexander spoke first, as he very often did. ‘I think we have become friends, after a manner of speaking, in the week we have spent in one another’s company, would not you agree?’

If he had had any sense, then Mr. Washington would have been more on his guard, for it is well known that if one is being asked to concur with a sentiment rather than to dispute it, then the other party has already planned their campaign several steps in advance. As a man of the military, one would have expected the Major General to understand this; but oratory is not a skill we teach our soldiers, so perhaps it is forgivable that he did not.

His answer was suitably cautious, for Alexander’s intent was murky. ‘I suppose, after a manner of speaking, we are.’ _Friend_ seemed a far-fetched designation: caretaker, or companion, or _guardian_ even, but they were men unequal in status, and true friendship requires equality.

‘And I think we may become still further acquainted, perhaps even intimately so, very comfortably if it comes to that. Would you not say that this was the case?’ (In court, we would call this rhetorical tactic ‘leading the witness,’ and if Alexander had been born in another place, where the status of men was paramount rather than dismissed, then he might have made a fine barrister.)

‘How do you mean?’ asked Mr. Washington. The plain question only served to draw Alexander out into greater agitation.

Alexander turned to him then, his hands worrying the sheets, and spoke quite plain. ‘What I mean, sir, is that I do not wish to marry Theodosia Prevost under any circumstances. In fact,’ he went on, as he had, over the past few days, become quite infatuated with the idea which he was even now trying to present, ‘in fact I think it is fair to say that as soon as you have got me home I will be quite obligated to run away again at once. I may make it to the border, this time, and your chase will be long and arduous. Among Mrs. Prevost's many faults we may count the fact that I neither admire nor trust her, whereas you, I esteem very greatly. Therefore perhaps it would be better all round if we could avert this potentially unhappy turn of events and simply admit that we enjoy one another’s company?’

‘Pardon?’ was all Mr. Washington could manage at this declaration, which was, to be fair, convoluted.

Alexander was cross at this answer, which he found most lacking in the direct affection he had intended to provoke. He sighed, and tried his hand again. ‘What I am trying to say, Mr. Washington, and perhaps not very eloquently at that, but no matter, is that you seem, for whatever reason, to be fond of me.’

Mr. Washington granted him a slight nod. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think it is fair to make that assumption.’

Alexander mimicked the nod. ‘And you find my company pleasing?’

‘Very pleasing,’ answered Mr. Washington, and then he added as an afterthought, ‘as a person, of course. As a friend. We are, as you previously said, friends.’

His companion chose to ignore this platitude, and continued the same line. ‘And you have been thinking, in no small measure, perhaps even since that night at Angelica’s wedding, of ways it would behoove you to be closer to me. You may have even raised the notion with those close to you?’

‘Also true,’ he agreed, as Alexander led him to the crux of the argument.

‘There!’ he cried out, with much effusion, ‘then it is as simple as all that!’ His hands he clapped together and he smiled, very broadly.

‘Are you,’ and here Mr. Washington was glad to be seated, as men generally are when they are told of the impending acquisition of their person, for it makes one very weak in the knees, ‘are you asking me to marry you, Mr. Schuyler?’

‘Consider it.’ Alexander steepled his fingers in his lap, flexed them, and began to enumerate the reasons why this was the most sensible of ideas that he could have ever fixed upon. Mr. Washington, who overall had impeccable manners, and who (unlike Alexander), kept his mouth sealed tight even in times of great shock or distress, here gaped in a very unbecoming manner, much like a large codfish in the North Atlantic.

At every point he was rebuffed, his objections overturned. Mr. Washington found that Alexander had not only countered his arguments, but anticipated them. It came to pass that after a few rounds of this, he had no argument left in him.

‘Finally,’ Alexander said, eyes flashing with excitement, as he knew he had won, ‘I have several requests that you must grant me before I will agree to marry you.’

‘I will grant them as best I can,’ Mr. Washington cautiously allowed.

Alexander enumerated his requests, which were really after the manner of demands. ‘Number one: I will require an office which is to be reserved for my sole use. It can be a root cellar or even a small shed, I care not, but it must be my own, with a door and a lock. My privacy must be sacrosanct. Is that something you will be able to accommodate?’

Mr. Washington’s mind handily supplied a dozen places on the grounds which would suffice: the second gun room, the vacant butler’s quarters, the extra woodshed, the attic, the icehouse, which he never used. ‘That can be arranged,’ he assured Alexander, who found this to be most excellent news indeed, and continued.

He then said, ‘Number two: I wish to have complete freedom with my books, my writing, and my correspondence. I give you my most solemn word that I intend to write nothing to that will harm or impugn you, or otherwise besmirch your honour, but again, in this, I must beg total autonomy and freedom from meddling or intervention.’

Mr. Washington, who had spent the past thirty years of his adult life being told what to do by his superiors, readily agreed to this.

‘And number three, and this is my final requirement,’ and here he wriggled against his pillows, ‘there is the small matter, very small in the great order of things, of my name.’

‘Your name? Oh, I see, you wish to keep it?’ Mr. Washington nodded his assent. ‘Of course, Mr. Schuyler, I know that forsaking the name of your guardian may not come easily to you. If you are amenable, we could consider the double-barrelled surname, which may be unwieldy in common use, but as we will not be in any danger of producing an heir and saddling her with the appellation of Washington-Schuyler, which is far too long for any woman who is not Queen Georgiana, God save her—’

‘God save the Queen —’ added Alexander, hastily — and when Her Majesty had been remembered, and her health silently prayed for, and that of Her Mother, and the Princess Hestia, and the royal felines (Artemis, Hecate, and Mnemosyne), and the Queen’s consorts, and everybody else — he continued. ‘But no,’ he told Mr. Washington. ‘I mean my _name_ , the one I came to this country with, and which I would very much like to wear again.’

‘Your mother’s name?’ said Mr. Washington. His eyebrows traveled up, and then back down, entirely independent of one another. ‘I am sure there would be no objection, though I do not know it—’

‘Faucette,’ said Alexander, a bit irritably, for one would think, honestly, that a prospective lover would have ascertained this intelligence from an outside source on his own.

‘Faucette,’ repeated Mr. Washington to himself. ‘Faucette-Washington? Washington-Faucette?’ He shook his head with dismay. ‘Again, it is full upon the tongue, but if her family have no objections to you using it —’

At this Alexander interrupted, for he wanted his association with Mr. Washington to be a net good, and so it struck him as preferable to keep his mother’s family as far from the proceedings as possible. ‘No,’ he said, bitterly, for it is a poor family that will not help their relations, even if their daughter had been the one to bring shame upon their family. ‘They will have nothing to do with me, or her memory,’ spat Alexander. ‘And I would not share a name with them even if it came with a better dowry than a hundred pounds.’

‘A hundred pounds?’ Mr. Washington’s eyebrows traversed his brow again, at first in tandem, and then the one after the other.

‘It is very little, I know,’ said Alexander, and on the topic of economics, his mood shifted to sparkling sun once more. ‘But! If you place me in charge of it, I am sure that in very little time I can make some shrewd but calculated investments, and, after a few years of barter and trade, especially with the markets open as they are in Scotland, I think that I will be able to double, easily double, if not treble the original investment in, well, me.’

Mr. Washington was too stunned by this assertion to say much else. Up until this juncture, he had not thought of Alexander as an investment, or an expenditure, but a person whose company he, for a variety of reasons, had come to enjoy.

(He was by now inclined to agree with Alexander’s earlier assertion that the room was too close, in spite of the open windows. His cravat seemed extremely tight around his neck. He was both here in this room, as Mr. Washington, being asked in earnest to marry a bright-eyed boy, and he was elsewhere, two hundred miles and a few dozen leagues to the east of here, fifteen years ago, on a green and grassy riverbank —again, a riverbank! — when he was still George Custis, and Martha Washington sat before him with her elbows on her knees and a look of consternation on the wide plain of her noble brow.)

~*~

‘Are you certain?’ he asked, and she wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve. Her frock coat was by now quite stained.

‘Yes,’ she said, her voice thick, ‘Come George, I am not so old as that.’

‘Will you have it?’ he asked, in wonderment.

‘I suppose I must,’ Martha’s sleeve absorbed another tear which was stubbornly making its way down her cheek.

‘And what do you wish to do?’ said poor George Custis, who had never expected to find himself in this situation. He wanted to do what was honourable and right, of course, but he did so out of love. ‘I will marry you, gladly, Martha, if that is what you wish.’

She turned to him, then, the setting sun reflected in the stillness of her eyes. Her hand found his. ‘I cannot make you marry me, George, dear,’ she said, ‘not even for the sake of our unborn child.’

He clasped her hand strongly in his turn. ‘Believe me, Madam,’ he said, and Martha hiccuped, which might have spoiled the moment, but so ardent was he that the noise did not even register, ‘you have never forced anything upon me; it has all been wished, and wished for, and wanted, because I love you.’

She smiled through her tears then. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘then I suppose it will do you well to ask again, but do it properly this time. Do it—’ she paused, and looked as a maid for a moment, girlish and sweet, ‘as a gentleman would?’

~*~

Above the tavern, the room which contained Alexander was hushed, as Mr. Washington recalled this moment, and sat with it for a while.

‘Sir?’ asked Alexander. ‘I would not wish to rush you, but what do you think of my proposal? Eliza will be back very soon, and I would like to have this settled in her absence.’

‘Well, if marriage is what you wish —’ said Mr. Washington, who felt, somehow, that matters had got very far from where he intended them to go, or at least, if he had actually wanted the same result, he had not expected Alexander to expedite the matter so quickly. He was discomfited yet pleased, which is exactly how a man should feel when he is being proposed to.

‘It is,’ insisted Alexander. ‘But, and you mustn’t laugh only —’ and he lowered his gaze in the direction of the wooden floor. ‘Do it properly,’ Alexander said, and his face was hot with the audacity of the demand, but he found that he scarcely cared.

Mr. Washington narrowed his eyes in confusion, and then came to the sense of the matter, inferred Alexander’s meaning, and promptly went down onto one knee.

‘Mr. Alexander Faucette Schuyler, who was born Alexander Hamilton,’ Mr. Washington said, with the attractive earnestness of an honest man. ‘I know that our acquaintance has been but brief, and I am of course a good deal older than you, but in the short time which I have known you —’ and, see here, reader, that he had words ready on his tongue, the sweet kind of words meant for wooing, as sticky and tender as a bit of Turkish delight. Yet they were evanescent, and altogether unnecessary. For the wooing, you see, had already been accomplished.

Let us explain. Though he admired Alexander when he was properly dressed for a dance or a dinner, and charming women and men alike with his clever tongue (though many of them resented him for it), it was during his sickness, clad only in a nightshirt that was too large for his small frame, his hair undone from its queue, and grouchy, and wracked with fever, and always unhappy with his dinner, and being perturbed at his reading too slowly, and in all the other thousand small daily ways of living, that Mr. George Washington had, much to his very great surprise, fallen very much in love.

Therefore the words were not of a romantic nature _per se_ although there was a good deal of romance in them — for it is much more difficult to love someone when you have seen them at their worst, but it is also true that — having already seen them at their lowest that everything which ensues will be ever so much better than if they only appeared to their lover in flattering light, under controlled circumstances.

Luckily for him, or perhaps unluckily, at that exactly moment Eliza bustled back through the door, having at last returned from her errand. Her skirts rustled as she said, ‘I am sorry that this took so long, but at least the milk is very fresh! Such a crowd downstairs, can you hear them singing? Ah, well, Mrs. Ross has said that she will send a boy up with hot water in a moment. It was a while coming, as the cow had not yet had her evening milking, and then of course we had to warm it. She has added a bit of mace to it, for want of nutmeg, which I’m sure you agree, is essentially the same thing —’

As she was talking, Eliza was closing the door very carefully behind her, as one must naturally do when a drink is hot and balance is required. She held the cup in its saucer with her left hand, and spun slowly in order to carefully latch the door with her right, and then steadied it with both hands as she turned to face our conversants, and was confronted with this most peculiar _tableau._

‘Eliza,’ said Alexander, cheerfully. ‘You have returned just in time! Mr. Washington is making a proposal!’

Eliza’s hands flew to her mouth like migratory birds. The cup of hot milk was dashed to the floor.

‘Yes,’ Alexander said, and peered at the puddle of milk which pooled upon the floorboards. ‘You are just in time, but, Mr. Washington, I suppose you had better hurry, and then one of you should probably fetch a towel. I suppose the cup is broken? Well, they will simply add it to the account, it is no worry.’

‘Alexander!’ gasped Eliza, and clutched her stomach as if it were her time of the month.

Mr. Washington remained on one knee, though soon the milk would find his trousers in its journey across the floor. He shimmied himself carefully away from its relentless advance.

‘I know what you will say, Eliza, but hear me out. I think,’ Alexander continued with a very prim attitude, ‘that this will be the best solution for us all. And that includes Aaron Burr, and yourself, for you of course cannot marry until we do, as we are both older than you.’

‘But Mrs. Prevost —’ she started.

He stopped her with a casual wave of his elegant hand. ‘—will take Aaron Burr in my place, and they will both be very pleased with this arrangement. I think there will be no argument from either of them as to the suitability of the match, and I suspect, if my suspicions are true, that neither of them will wish to tarry in their expediting of the matter. In less than three trimesters I think you will understand my meaning.’

Eliza absorbed this new information, which boggled the mind and upset the stomach. ‘You wish to marry Mr. Washington,’ she said, slowly. ‘A man.’ Now she turned to Mr. Washington for some indication as to how she was to respond to this proposition. He, still kneeling, shrugged. They were both helpless before a force of nature such as Alexander.

As this was all taking place, the spilt milk had decided to stop just short of Mr. Washington’s kneecaps and had begun to drip, nearly imperceptibly, through the cracks in the floorboards, where it landed, very neatly, on a corner of a wooden table which the cat Phoebe happily set upon with its scratchy pink tongue.

‘Yes,’ Alexander stated, and gave her a hard stare, which he had perfected in the eleven years of their acquaintance. ‘All things being equal, I think this will solve all our problems very neatly.’

She picked her way over the broken china on the floor and sat down heavily upon the bed. Nobody had indicated to Mr. Washington that he should move, and so he had not. They painted a very strange picture, these three.

Her mind spun to comprehend the implications for everybody involved. Alexander was, in a strange way, right to propose it. Finally, when only the hypothetical arguments that involve one’s family remained, she declared, ‘But Alexander, you must know full well that Mother will not take kindly to your suggestion. Even if it is a sensible idea, which, in almost every respect it is, and I am perhaps not sure why nobody had thought to raise it before, but still! The very fact of it originating from your mind will predispose her to dislike it. I am afraid that Mrs. Prevost will have much greater influence in the matter than you, Alexander. After all, she is a woman married, and she has the church in her corner.’

‘That’s true,’ Alexander said, for he had already contemplated this possibility. As a married woman of the best society, Mrs. Schuyler would of course be inclined to trust the word of another married woman above all else, especially above that of a young male ward who had no income and who had caused her, over the years, so very much distress. However, he had again anticipated her response, and said, ‘How very right you are, Eliza! But of course if you set the idea before her, rather than me, I am sure it will not be nearly so disputed. She may still seek the counsel of Mrs. Prevost, but then again, if you are delicate in your manner, and enlist Aaron Burr as a willing accomplice, which I am sure he will be, then I can see no point on which Lady Catherine will stumble in her readiness to acquiesce.’

Eliza appeared taken aback by this suggestion, which was so full of good sense that it could hardly have seemed to emanate from Alexander himself.

‘Well,’ she said. Downstairs, the fluffy black cat was shooed off the table by Mrs. Ross’ boy, who was on his way upstairs with a fresh basin of warm water for Alexander to bathe his hands in. ‘Well, I suppose I must write Mother a letter. Have you paper?’

‘Plenty,’ said Alexander. He then looked over at Mr. Washington, whose knees by this point ached very badly, and who was completely bemused, and still at least a goodly portion uncertain if he had actually proposed to Alexander or not. ‘And yes, I suppose you’d better.’

The proposal was properly made, then. Alexander beamed; Mr. Washington looked very serious; Eliza cried happy tears. Paper was duly procured, and the chair given over to Eliza once more, so that she might transcribe Alexander’s dictation, adding, of course, the twists and turns of phrase which marked the inquiry as her own, and as Mr. Washington was leaving them to their schemes, two sets of eyes followed him to the door, and he felt their approbation, and basked in its warmth like the most magnificent of cats.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Great Deal of Talking — Eliza and Alexander — Mulligan and Mr. Washington — Alexander and Aaron Burr_

Once Dr. Bailey had ascertained that Alexander was at last fit to travel, they settled the account with Mrs. Ross. The horses, who had barely a moment to catch their breath, were equipped for the journey back to South End. Then with a great deal of fuss and fanfare the patient (who was by now much better, but sweet Eliza spoiled him with her attentions) was installed in the carriage. Mr. Washington rode ahead on Nelson, looking very fine in his carriage and his person, and Alexander ruminated on this, and how, if Lady Catherine gave her blessing, then he would soon be husband to a man such as this.

Though he traveled some distance ahead of them, Mr. Washington and would double back at regular intervals to remark on the scenery, or the length of the ride until the next hitching post, or to inquire after Alexander’s general comfort, the latter of which Eliza was seeing to very efficiently without his interference

‘Are you anxious?’ Eliza asked Alexander, when Mr. Washington had departed for the seventh time. She peered out the window after him and watched him ride on. ‘I know that would be nervous to marry a man whom I scarce knew.’

‘Well,’ Alexander said, and put down his book long enough to chew over the question, ‘I will not deny that I have some trepidation about matrimony as an unquestioned good between a woman and her men, or merely the one, and must naturally extend that same skepticism to myself.’

‘But you must get married,’ remarked Eliza, and gave Alexander a reprimanding look. ‘That is simply what is done.’

Alexander accepted the look, and said, ‘And so I am doing it! I will be a most perfect husband for Mr. Washington, just you wait!’

Her laugh chimed loud in the little carriage. ‘This I will long to see, dear brother,’ she said with amusement, for the idea of Alexander as a society husband, solicitous and preening, was far too amusing to allow her to keep her mirth to herself. ‘Will you sew his waistcoats and tuck dried violets into the pockets? Embroider his handkerchiefs? Will you bake his favourite cakes for tea? Will you go out with him, in society, and make pointless conversation with those you find stupid, merely so that he will look the better for it?’

‘I might do,’ said Alexander, ‘but very likely I will not. However,’ he said, ‘as I am come to understand, he is away with his garrison most of the time, and the occasions on which I am called upon to be perfect, and to behave perfectly, will be so few and far between that I am certain I can manage them without too much evil to my person.’

It was just as well that they were returning. Mr. Schuyler and Aaron Burr welcomed their chances to say a proper goodbye. Alexander needed to compile his things, such as they were, and have them sent along by coach to his new home in the east. And he must, sadly, bid his younger sisters farewell. Even more than Eliza, Alexander would be very sorry to leave Peggy behind. Eliza he would write at length, every other day, and she would return letters of several pages in her fine copperplate, but Peggy — to her he might send a funny joke or a poorly done drawing, and have no sense from her whether she enjoyed it or not, and have the report of it only from Eliza, secondhand.

 

~*~

 

Mr. Washington was grateful to be returning to his lodging. After so long away with no proper change of clothing he found himself in dire need of a laundryman, and, as it turned out, a tailor as well. Of course could have purchased something from the town shop, or the commercial tailors, but he sought another chance to insinuate himself with the Schuyler family. When they arrived a day later at South End — that house of course being on the southernmost fringes of greater Monmouth — he took the opportunity to engage Mulligan to cut him two fine dress shirts of white cambric, suitable for a man to wear at his second wedding, and three cravats: in black, gray, and white. He was indeed feeling so generous that he agreed readily to the first price which Mulligan named, when everybody knows that this is merely a starting point for negotiations. Mulligan was very pleased with this outcome as well, if taken aback. He covered with a politeness.

‘How long do you expect your engagement to our Alexander to last, sir?’

‘I hope it will be a short engagement, but of course we must hear word from Lady Catherine,’ said Mr. Washington with a small frown and a crease of his forehead, ‘and I suppose she may return here to do the business?’

‘She will not like that, though, sir.’ Mulligan shook his head with dismay. ‘Hates to travel, does Her Ladyship. The journey always sets her back at least a full day, and as the years pass, the longer it takes her to recover from her ills.’

‘Is that so?’ said Mr. Washington. ‘Well, then,’ he followed with a smart tap of the heel, ‘then all that remains is to await our orders from your mistress.’

‘And you, sir?’ asked Mulligan, who was already wondering if Mr. Washington might stay put for a while, and if he would be with them into the fall. Why then, he might be needing a new pair of breeches, or a waistcoat, even a jacket or two! Or if he stayed through the winter, a fine woolen coat! His head fairly spun with the possibilities of the money to be earned. ‘What of your commission?’

‘Mm,’ he hummed. ‘I have read the papers. It will not be long now before I am called to the front. I cannot delay much longer. There is a war on. Good day, Mulligan.’

‘Good day, sir,’ said Mulligan, and as Mr. Washington was walking off, he quickly had a thought and spoke it. ‘Do you like cake?’ he asked. ‘Or, rather, what sort of cake do you like?’

Mr. Washington thought for a minute. In truth he was not overly fond of cake, but he did not want to appear rude to the housekeeper. ‘May I ask what sort of cake Mr. Hamilton prefers?’’

‘Who?’ asked Mulligan. His hands went to his stout waist and he seemed put off by the question.

‘Beg pardon,’ murmured Mr. Washington, for this name was not widely known, even among members of the household. ‘Mr. Schuyler; your Alexander. Does he enjoy cake?’

‘He enjoys it well enough,’ Mulligan said, considering the question. ‘But it is Mr. Schuyler who favours it most of all.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Washington. ‘Well, what does _he_ prefer?’

Mulligan chewed his lip. ‘Hot milk sponge,’ he said. ‘Split with a lemon curd in the middle. But that is not a cake fit for company!’

‘I respectfully disagree,’ countered Mr. Washington, ‘and I would greatly appreciate a sponge with lemon curd, at any point in the foreseeable future.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Mulligan, and then wished him a good day once more, and went to add lemons to the grocery list.

 

~*~

 

Aaron Burr and Alexander sat in their small shared bedroom, in the exact place where we began our story. Though much has changed over the course of this telling, it has remained true that they still loved and detested one another in equal measure, almost as if they were twin brothers sprung from the same womb.

‘You would do this for me?’ asked Aaron Burr. The news was not public, but Theodosia had felt it in her womb. She claimed that it happened the first time he went to her, on the night they prayed together in the vestry, and perhaps she was right, and had timed it very cleverly indeed. This woman, bright with the assurance of her own salvation, had made love to him with the ardour of righteousness, and so serpentine was her logic, so seductive her parable, that he fell like Adam for her charms.

Yet for all that, even in spite of all that! — Aaron Burr loved her, and wished to marry her, and become helpmeet in her marriage.

‘But you know it will not matter,’ Alexander reproved. ‘She has Mr. Prevost. There will be no shame in it, for she is married.’

Aaron Burr shook his perfectly shaped head in a perfect parabola. ‘Alexander,’ he sighed, ‘this is not for me, or even for Theodosia. It is for my child. I want to know her; I deserve to know her.’

‘How do you know it will be a girl?’ asked Alexander, with curiosity.

‘I have prayed for it,’ said Aaron Burr, ‘and Theodosia has testimony that it will be so, and I am certain she must be correct.’

Alexander had to bite the inside of his cheek to avoid saying anything which would harm his plans, which depended entirely on Aaron Burr’s goodwill — which, as we have seen, was a slippery and tricky thing with regard to Alexander in particular. It would not do to endanger it with his own dislikes. Thus even though he thought prayer very stupid, and logic altogether much better, he said, ‘Then I wish you all the blessings in the world, Mr. Burr.’

‘And you, Mr. Schuyler,’ said Aaron Burr, and offered Alexander his hand to shake. Alexander might have taken this opportunity to correct him on the nomenclature (though as a matter of fact the paperwork would have to be processed in two different counties, and a thorough search of the death rolls completed, so as to ascertain that his mother really was very much dead, and thus could not object to the legal changing of his name, a process which was very begrudgingly instigated by Mrs. Schuyler) and instead hugged him very tightly to his breast.

‘I hope to see you again,’ he said, a little breathless.

‘Yes,’ said Aaron Burr, his voice thick with emotion, ‘on the other side of all of this.’

 

~*~

 

They anxiously awaited Lady Catherine’s response, which came a few days later. They conferred, Alexander and Eliza, and then Eliza wrote another letter on behalf of her father. The return to that letter was eagerly anticipated, and when it arrived by the afternoon post, the Schuyler family had been sitting in the drawing room, each amusing themselves in the way they liked best: Alexander reading, Mr. Washington watching Alexander read, Eliza and Aaron Burr sewing, Peggy playing a hand of Patience, Mr. Schuyler pacing in front of the mantle and peering out the window every five minutes.

‘Will you not sit down?’ Eliza said at last, ‘or go for a constitutional, if you wish to walk. Your pacing makes me most discomfited, Papa.’

‘Oh, Eliza!’ said her father, ‘I cannot sit still for even a moment.’

‘Perhaps a walk?’ encouraged Aaron Burr, who also found Mr. Schuyler's behaviour irritating.

‘Perhaps,’ he mused, ‘perhaps — but no! Here comes the post!

They flocked to the window, and then to the front door. The letter was given to Eliza, as it was addressed to her, for she was the lady of the house in her mother’s absence. However she was also very anxious, and opened it with trembling hands.

‘You read it, Papa!’ Eliza thrust the paper in his direction.

‘Oh!’ said Peggy, and clasped her hands together. ‘Oh I hope it is some good news!’

‘Should I leave the room?’ asked Mr. Washington, who was already making to do so. Alexander grabbed onto his forearm, and exclaimed, ‘Absolutely not!’

Mr. Washington was promptly pulled back to stand by Alexander, who most audaciously allowed his hand to linger long enough to retain the imprint of the cloth of Mr. Washington’s new jacket. The article in question was very fine indeed, as Mulligan and Aaron Burr had both worked it. Mr. Washington overall thought that it was more decorative than he would have liked, but as the colors were very elegant, the embrodiery rent in black on black so as to make a pattern of leaves and vines, then he permitted that it was very handsome, which was what everybody had said when he tried it on that morning. Of course only one opinion in the room mattered to him, and that was Alexander’s, and he had praised it in a way that sounded like open condemnation, but which Mr. Washington had recently come to understand, was as close to sincere flattery as Alexander could get.

Mr. Schuyler read, and they all listened, and held their collective breath, and hoped.

_‘—while it is uncustomary for me to be so far from the goings-on of my household, we must all make sacrifices for our nation in a time of great distress, upheaval, and immanent war. I am greatly concerned that the Adams bills are in the process of being reintroduced, for Mrs. Adams has taken it upon herself to propose an emergency session with both houses in attendance. My work here continues unabated, and I cannot spare the journey or the attendant sickness which would ensue, even to be with my family at this crucial hour. Angelica has been a great help to me, and I cannot release her either. Therefore, Eliza, as the eldest daughter and being here granted power of attorney, you will take this letter to the rector and show her this, exactly as it is written here.’_

_‘Therefore I give my blessing, and permit my first husband, Philip Schuyler, and my second daughter, Eliza Schuyler, to act on my behalf in the matter of the marriages of the two wards entrusted by God and Queen to my care: Alexander Schuyler and Aaron Burr. To Mr. Schuyler shall be dispersed —’_

‘Oh!’ said Philip, and folded the letter back up. The small amount of Alexander’s dowry was a matter of some shame for him, especially in comparison to the riches which awaited Aaron Burr upon being taken as husband. ‘Well, perhaps we will stop there!’

Eliza embraced Alexander and then Aaron, and Peggy embraced Alexander and then Aaron, and Philip pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes, for the immanent prospect of a wedding always made him weep. Alexander gave Mr. Washington a very shy smile, the memory of which he carried all the way back to his lodgings that afternoon, and began his own series of letters to arrange for the transport and care of Alexander Schuyler, soon to be Hamilton, to Mount Vernon, and his own passage from London to Calais.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Day of the Wedding — At the Church — A Kiss — What Happened to Aaron Burr_

Several weeks later, Alexander awoke on the morning of his wedding and felt more rested than he had any right to be. He had stayed up very late the night before with a copy of _A Guide for Young Wives_ which he had secreted from Lady Catherine’s bedside table. As this involved picking the lock of her private chamber with a hairpin, an arduous task in and of itself, he wished to exhaust the material for all it was worth. He was also fortunate in that on the eve of his wedding, and the night following its completion, he had been granted the use of Angelica’s bedroom, and so would be afforded such privacy as the small house would allow.

He was well-rested because Angelica’s bed was very soft, with a riot of silken pillows in all shades of peach and pink, and though Alexander was well-accustomed to reading in bed — which, as anybody will tell you is a very bad habit, and can cause fires if the reader is careless — he was unaccustomed to being so very comfortable while he did so. And though the manual was (very!) informative, it was all he could do to keep his eyes from drifting closed and his head bobbing forward, heavy with sleep. More than once he dozed off and woke with a start, very nearly singeing his hair on the candle, the frayed edges of the rag curlers coming altogether too close to the flame for comfort.

After he had been awake for a while but had yet to stir from the bed, Eliza came to him bearing a breakfast tray; he ate but little. Everything passed as if in a daze. She helped him with his toilet, and then his hair, which she brushed until it gleamed in soft curls that lay very attractively just atop his shoulders. Then they went into the parlor, and everybody drank their morning tea with all the necessary excitement suiting such an occasion, and opened the windows, happily remarked on the weather (hot, cloudless, the grass valiantly struggling to keep itself in green for a few days more), and went to prepare themselves for a church wedding. 

‘You look very lovely,’ Eliza said to Alexander’s white-clad reflection in the full-length glass of the room. Upon Angelica's departure, it was understood that the room was to belong to her, but the transition had been delayed by Alexander's absence. Peggy, also, felt the change keenly, and the few times Eliza had tried to spend the night in her new room, Peggy woke her, as she was unaccustomed to sleeping alone, and crawled into bed beside her sister and happily fell asleep. Eliza, however, was a light sleeper, and every time Peggy did this, she was cranky and irritable the following morning. 

Once matters had settled, she would have a talk with Peggy, and try again. The room was, after Lady Catherine's and the front parlor, the very finest in the whole of the house. She was not overly fond of the wallpaper — green and white stripes with colourful floral motifs embossed atop them — as it was very busy, and made her feel agitated. A pale blue paint, she thought, as delicate as a robin’s egg, and the wainscotting redone in ivory, would suit the space very nicely. So much more airy! With her mother gone she could sew herself new covers for the cushions, very easily, without reprobation, and as for the chaise — a horrible shade of lilac that had been Angelica’s favourite colour when she was seventeen, and which she claimed to still prefer — well, perhaps a slipcover could be repurposed from elsewhere in the house?

‘As do you,’ said Alexander, for of course she did. And then Eliza laid a hand on his shoulder, and he reached back to pat it, and then on impulse, raised it to his mouth to kiss. ‘I will miss you, dear Eliza.’

And Eliza, who was at once overjoyed and altogether sadder than she had ever been in her life — even sadder than the day Angelica was married, sadder than when she was told by her mother that she must spend less time braiding Alexander and Peggy’s hair and more time with her books of chemistry, for she was going to be a doctor not a _coiffeuse_ — came to rest her chin on Alexander’s shoulder, and tilted her head against the blade of it, and they could have spoke, but they did not, as this was enough.

After they had been in this position for a good time, for neither of them wished to be the first to break off the embrace, matters were settled for them. Peggy burst in through the door without so much as a knock, and said, ‘Are you ready, Alexander? Eliza! It is time!’ They hastily broke apart, with fond looks and sniffles, and Eliza took Alexander's hand, and together they left the room, squeezing to accommodate both their persons through the narrow doorframe, and they did not release their hands until the moment they arrived at the church. 

Their party was small, consisting of the following: Alexander, the bridegroom, his sisters Eliza and Peggy, Mr. Schuyler, and, to serve as witnesses for Mr. Washington, Aaron Burr and Hercules Mulligan. The housekeeper found that even on their way to the church, the three handkerchiefs which he carried on his person were insufficient to surmount the task of his tears, and thus he was forced to borrow one from Aaron Burr on the ride over, and later, another from Peggy on their return to the estate. 

The other bridegroom was to meet them at the church, though he was kept well from Alexander’s sight until the moment of their encounter at the altar. As we have mentioned previously, Alexander thought very little of superstitions, but there is a time and a place to be agnostic about the efficacy of them. Everybody sensible agrees that it is better to be safe than sorry when a wedding is concerned. Indeed, why test the fates on such a day?

An organ played a somber tune and Alexander made his way up the aisle on Eliza's arm. He looked at her, at the stained glass windows, at the crumpled and happy faces of the people who had served for so long as his family, and then Mr. Washington turned his whole body to face him, and he appeared so tall, so graceful, so preposterously handsome, that Alexander could scarce believe his own luck. At any moment he expected to wake from this terrifying and delicious dream and find that none of this had happened. That he had never run away, had never been rescued by such a dashing gentleman soldier, that he had never been proposed to, or agreed to marry, or any of the other things which had taken and were taking place. 

But of course he had, and when the rector began her speech, reality rushed in and Alexander very nearly swooned. The suit of black looked very becoming on Mr. Washington; that of white on Alexander even more so. They looked the one at the other, and though Mr. Washington’s hands trembled and Alexander’s mouth was dry, they loved one another, and were frightened after their own manners, but altogether happy.

Marriages we have seen done, so we will pass over this one quickly; the efficacy is in the saying of the words, and thereby bringing about a state of affairs in the world. A wartime wedding must go quickly, and luckily it was early enough in the day that the rector was sober, and the ceremony read without incident.

Let us be brief, then: God was praised; no objections raised, vows exchanged, a hymn sung. Mulligan held Alexander’s flowers (green oak leaf, blue bellflower, yellow celandine) while Aaron Burr provided the rings (plain silver, etched with their names and the date), and they clasped hands before all, and were declared as persons joined in matrimony. Mulligan wailed at this, and Peggy did her best to comfort him. Aaron Burr looked smug, as he always did. The matter of Alexander's nomenclature was left for a later time, and so Alexander became, at least for a short while, Mr. Alexander Washington in common conversation, and indeed would be called so thereafter by old-fashioned people and relations who could not understand why he did not share a surname with his spouse. That, however, is a question for another day. 

After they had been pronounced married, Mr. Washington offered Alexander his arm, Alexander lent Mr. Washington his most ardent gaze, and a very charming smile to boot. The coaches waited for them outside the church gates. Mr. Washington helped Mr. Hamilton into their carriage. It was the first time that Alexander had seen Nelson hitched to a carriage and the horse disliked wearing a harness, but on the coachman's command he rose to a step, and then once on the road, a trot, as Alexander waved merrily at passersby, simply because he could, and the freedom of it was intoxicating.

‘And now to the party!’ he said, looking up at Mr. Washington, who was now, he supposed, joined to him in this life and the next. He thought that on the whole, that prospect would be acceptable, though he held opposing views about the afterlife in contraindication to that of the church in which he had just been married. Like all people who must exist in this world, Alexander was a mass of contradictions in his beliefs.

‘Thank you,’ said Alexander, altogether sincere, and with this he took his new husband's hand in his own. 'Thank you, George. Oh, how funny that sounds! But I suppose I must get used to it, to calling you George!'

Mr. Washington, or George, was silent, and gave no answer to this. He had already become very comfortable referring to Alexander as Mr. Hamilton, and now, it seemed, he would be expected to call him by his Christian name in private. In lieu of a response, he rubbed his thumb along the length of Alexander's index finger. This made his new husband feel very odd indeed, almost as he had done when investigating the pictures in Mrs. Schuyler's manual. And even moreso, for those were drawings, and Mr. Washington was a flesh and blood man, and so handsome, in his embroidered black coat and crisp white cravat, his breeches so very tailored, his calves so exquisitely shapely, his hands so wide and strong and capable. 

'Shall I call you Mr. Hamilton?' he asked, and Alexander laughed with glee. 'Oh, I confess, I do like the sound of that! But we are married now, so you may of course address me as Alexander when we are alone. And,' he here bit his full bottom lip, as they had now passed through the gates of town, and nobody was there to see him, he tilted his head up in a beautiful pout, with the obvious expectation of being given a kiss. 

Mr. Washington, that is to say, George, hesitated for a moment, as they were still technically in public. But Mr. Hamilton, or rather Alexander, had unlocked something in him. A lightness of spirit, perhaps, a sense of impulse. A freedom from the ever present constraints of decorum, and honour, and gentlemanly righteousness. 

Alexander cracked one eye open and rearranged his face so as to make it even more inviting. Mr. Washington again waited, and looked, but at long last, he caved. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and he was married to an intelligent, impetuous, beautiful young man, and young men such as Alexander require constant kissing if they are to be kept satisfied and happy. 

It was a light kiss, a delicate one. Alexander hummed a pleased sound when their lips touched, and Mr. Washington, or rather George, enjoyed the noise greatly, and wished to be the cause of more noises like it. Guided by the hand on his chin, Alexander tipped his head to the left, and George moved his to the right, and the coachman happened to look back at them, and grinned a randy smile to himself, and, because he was a romantic man at heart, slowed the horses to a casual pace and left the gentlemen to their activity. Thus it came to pass that they arrived at South End much later than the rest of the party; George's eyes very dark, Alexander's beautiful curls all mussed, and Mr. Schuyler very anxious to toss the bouquet and especially, to cut into the cake. 

 

~*~

 

(As for the reader who wishes to know what was to became of Aaron Burr, let the following coda suffice. He soon thereafter married Mrs. and Mr. Prevost without a great deal of ceremony, in the same small church where Angelica had taken her husband and Alexander his. The occasion was marked by a small gathering of close friends, a wholly vegetarian meal, a quantity of spiritual songs, little dancing, and absolutely no alcohol or cake, which made for a very dull party indeed. After an interval at Cheltenham and a small legal dispute, they were comfortably removed to his mother’s former parish in Somerset, which afforded Theodosia a much wider pulpit from whence to preach, and her influence only grew. A little less than five months after their wedding she bore a girl child, who was small, and dark, and beautiful, in feature resembling both of her fathers, and who was baptized with her mother’s name. Aaron Burr, who had by this point become Aaron Prevost, had never been happier. He was the best father that young Theodosia could have been blessed with, and doted upon her unconditionally. Every letter he wrote to Alexander — of which there were many, and their friendship happily grew for the better. Distance will often have this effect on those who have been too closely intertwined for so long, and along with age and matrimony will help mellow their acid into vinegar. However, Alexander took issue with Aaron’s constant insistence that he would be much happier if he had a child to call his own, but on this, as many other issues, they would never agree — whether in the text itself on in a separate sheet of paper, contained a drawing of his daughter, very skillfully done. Alexander saved them all, and wrote back with tender words of appreciation for her loveliness, and Aaron’s skill at fatherhood, and much later, when the first Mr. Prevost died very suddenly of an attack of angina that no one had expected, a long note of condolence that Aaron Burr treasured very much, and read from time to time in his bath.)


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Remains of the Cake — The Bedchamber — Another Kiss — And a Memory_

When at last it came time for Alexander and George to retire, Mulligan pressed a china plate loaded with most of the remaining cake into Mr. Washington’s hand, accompanied by but a single fork. For his part, Mr. Schuyler offered them an excellent bottle of claret that would, he said, go nicely with the flavours of the _patisserie._

‘You have outdone yourself, Mulligan, truly!’ said Philip, who was very sad to part ways with the cake, and looked at it wistfully as it was hurried away. A _Jaconde_ sponge it was, whisked into airy lightness by Mulligan’s powerful arms, and overflowing with fillings of chocolate buttercream and blackcurrant preserves. Each layer had been soaked with a mixture of blackcurrant liqueur and coffee, the latter of which the cook had thoughtfully included so the bridegrooms would keep their wits about them; every man needs to be alert, as it were, on his wedding night.

They crossed from the parlor to Angelica’s bedroom, where Alexander had rather stupidly left the _Guide for Young Wives_ in plain sight atop the bedclothes. George at once espied it, as he was in the process of placing the cake on the side table.

‘It’s not mine!’ Alexander lied, his face flushing a very charming shade of pink. ‘I mean to say, it was Eliza’s doing, that — well! She lent it to me!’

‘Ah,’ said George, who then decided that the cake on its plate, and the wine bottle, and also the wine glasses, would really be better housed atop Angelica’s dressing table, which was in the far corner of the room and not at all close to the bed. He ferried them carefully over, one at a time. Truth be told, George was discomfited even by the innocuous illustration on the book’s worn paper cover, which depicted a stand of chestnut trees in flower, a carpet of bluebells and ferns just beginning to unfurl across the expanse between their gnarled roots; the title curling across the front in ornate script.

Suffice it to say that there were no manuals of this kind in the army. Martha thought experience the wisest teacher, and — had you asked her, would have said that matters between two people were best learnt in between a pair of sheets. She cared little for protocol; had she ever been in possession of such a book, it would have been used to prop up a table with a rickety leg, or — if a mood of whimsy took her — to laugh outright at its contents after the deed had been done, with a sated lover resting against her breast.

Whilst George had been carrying the cake, the glasses, and the wine from one side of the room to the other, Alexander had crawled, still fully dressed, beneath the blankets. He tossed the manual aside, onto the floor, and began to undress. He removed his jacket, his cravat, his waistcoat, his shoes, his breeches, his stockings, and at last his garters and it was there that he stopped, feeling absolutely the most naked he ever had since he joined our society and learnt the value of modesty. His things lay in an unseemly pile on the floor.

From his cavern under the bedclothes Alexander heard a match being struck. He summoned his courage and peeked his head out to offer his opinion. ‘I think we may safely forego the fire,’ said he, and then he chanced to look at George.

His husband stood before the mantlepiece as he lit the candles with a long wooden match. He had loosed his jacket and his cravat. The top of his shirt hung open, and a triangle of bare flesh peeked out from below it. So many candles there were — which had been placed there months ago so that Angelica might be able to see her new husband, and he her, and which Mulligan had yet to clear away; for with passing intelligence and sewing clothes and baking cakes and all the rest of it he had been much too busy to give the room more than a cursory dusting and, of course, to remove and launder the soiled bedlinens — that he used up several matches in lighting them all.

He looked very handsome in the candlelight, thought Alexander. But, then, he had also looked extremely handsome by the light of the fire in the room at Mrs. Ross’ inn, where they had been sequestered for five whole days. These days now in retrospect, Alexander was coming to consider as the happiest time of his entire short and as-yet-(fairly)-uneventful life.

(In this, Reader, he was altogether mistaken, for Providence had in her wisdom decreed that he would know the purest, most undiluted joy with which ever a man had been blessed. His future held many more such moments; stretches of time when he would look up from his writing, of which there would soon be a great deal, and across his fine library at the good man he had married, his face more creased, his close-shorn hair now truly speckled with gray, and remember this very beginning moment, and how many years they had traversed together. Their ending will be most happy, which is no less than our hero deserves.)

To return to George and the bedroom, Alexander now considered that he had also looked very fine by the light of the lamps which had illuminated the ballroom at Angelica’s wedding, and in which they had danced a set together, and his own hand had been kissed on two separate occasions. Or how becoming he seemed upon his horse, tall and imposing, with the sun reflected behind him as if in halo. All these incidents and still more: most real, some imagined, washed over Alexander, as he hid beneath the covers.

It may help to know that Alexander, in his strange and small way, called to George’s mind the General who had been his wife. The reason for this was hard to explain precisely, for they were, in every possible way, exceedingly opposite people. She had been statuesque where Alexander was average, even slight, and strong where he was frail, and thoughtful, where he was outspoken, but there was something about his eyes which brought Martha to mind. Perhaps in the way he saw Mr. Washington, who was considered a gentleman now: the elegant widower, the pride of Mount Vernon, the very exemplar of a Major General — and could see past all of that — past the land, the name, the titles — to the man beneath it all. For a person may love two very different people, if they can evoke this same feeling in a man’s heart.

‘George,’ said Alexander, and though he was frightened, here he lowered the blanket a cautious inch.

‘Will you have a glass of wine?’ said George. ‘Will you?’ asked Alexander in turn.

‘God, yes,’ answered George, and poured a glass full to the brim. His neck was by now unspeakably bare, and Alexander watched him, the blanket now covering to just below his eyes, as he tipped a glass down his throat in one long swallow. It was undoubtedly the most erotic thing he had ever chanced to see.

The slosh of the wine into another glass was very loud in the still room. Alexander imagined he could hear his own heartbeat. George thought his own breathing seemed particularly laboured.

Why he was herewith shy, when for so long he had been so bold, Alexander could not say for certain. But if there was one thing he excelled at, it was in channeling a confidence that he did not yet feel in his heart.

‘Come to bed,’ Alexander beckoned, and in one movement he lifted up the covers. It was shadowy beneath them. George walked over to him, and set down the glasses of wine by the bed, and came no closer. There was a long passage of time in which neither man spoke, and then finally George breached the silence.

‘You are certain?’ he asked. ‘I do not wish to take that which was not freely offered.’

‘I know my own mind,’ Alexander said, as he was by now beyond exasperated with George’s honour. ‘For better or worse now, husband, we are as two men married. And I no longer belong to my mother's people, or to Lady Catherine, or, as we have previously ascertained during our conversations prior to the wedding, even to you! But that being the case,’ and here he reached over to stroke the taut fabric which covered George’s hardy thigh, and, clearing his throat, said, ‘well, if you must know, I am rather anxious to understand what all the fuss is about.’

‘Is that right?’ George was most genuinely amused by this confession.

‘Yes,’ Alexander answered, only slightly mortified. ‘Very much so.’

‘Well then,’ said George. His mind made up, he climbed into the bed. ‘Let us make a fuss.’

For approximately the second time that day, George kissed Alexander.

The manual has this to say about kissing — 

_As a general rule, males of the sex are not overly fond of the act of kissing, by which we mean the application of one partner’s facial lips to the other’s. You may have had opportunity to see this practice at some of our more lenient places of worship at the second wedding, when the couple’s evident enjoyment of their new spouse is often lasciviously recognized. If you have not been witness to one of these ghastly scenes, then you may consider yourself fortunate. For a woman and wife we will say that the pressure of the lips should be neither too light nor too firm. It is appropriate for both parties to remember to breathe, and to relieve themselves of excess saliva by swallowing at discrete intervals during the act. Should the woman permit it, then the tongue may be involved in the act of kissing. However, this is generally thought to be a very vulgar preference, as is evidenced by its nomenclature, which points directly to its French origins. It is, however, to be encouraged outright at the latter stages of lovemaking, when the tongue may come into its own useful capacity as an instrument of pleasure. _

_[For more regarding this, please see Chapters Four, Five, Six, Seven, and Eight, ‘Keeper of the Vineyards,’ ‘Wind of the South,’ ‘Tents of Kedar,’ ‘Solomon’s Curtains,’ and ‘The Inner Chamber,’ respectively.]_

This is what kissing brought to mind for George —

It had been a fine night; a late summer night with buckets of wine and heaps of song. A squadron, aided by the Spaniards, had repelled the French fleet. A fresh bout of diplomacy was sure to follow, yet some amongst their company ardently hoped that it would fail. They wished for a war. To die unblemished and to be anointed with the proper glory of the battlefield; for their comrades to sing songs of their bravery, to be given a hero’s funeral.

Martha had been a soldier for long enough to be wholly indifferent to the prospect of glory. Of course she liked to hear her name trumpeted through the streets of Chelsea and Oxbridge, but still she kept her medals in a drawer. They were, however, a welcome diversion for the sort of men who _did_ care about such things. The invitation was an open and unspoken one, and so never bore repeating unless there were a particular need to do so.

That hot summer night, illuminated by the flickering of the fire, Martha very uncharacteristically mentioned her medals, which had been laid upon her breast by Queen Georgiana herself, and the entire rope of her hair that had been bestowed as a token of gratitude, before she had gone completely gray. (Let it be known that an ongoing state of war will tax any woman, especially a sovereign.)

When she pushed herself up off the log on which they had been sitting side by side, she gave the Lieutenant Colonel a very significant look, as if beckoning him to follow. George, who had feigned absolutely zero interest up to this point, naturally assumed that her leaving was not a feint. Their kiss of a week ago on the riverbank was a diversion for her, nothing more. He stared morosely into the flames with a heavy heart, and drank from his cup of wine, and refused to join in the general merriment.

After some time had passed, and the roar of the bonfire had settled into a gentle flame, a foot soldier was sent to retrieve him at General Washington’s behest.

‘If you would be so good as to report to her tent at once,’ said he, and George stood up, to the general amusement of his comrades.

‘Whatever have you done now?’ laughed Collins, who had himself seen Martha’s medals on more than one occasion, for she could understandably not resist the novelty of his blue eyes.

‘If I were you,’ the one called Greene said, ‘I would throw yourself upon her mercy,’ and then he and Collins snickered.

‘Do not listen to them,’ Knox assured him, for George was extremely worried. ‘Her Excellency is always just and equitable to her underlings. Rest assured that if you have displeased her in some way that she will not hesitate to tell you.’

‘Agreed! She is very hard to displease,’ joked Collins. George followed the footman to her summer quarters. Martha liked to sleep out of doors, beneath the stars. A cot in a barracks served her in the winter, but no sooner than the ground had thawed ever would she pitch her tent and open it to the sky.

George entered after he was announced. ‘Your Excellency,’ George saluted.

Martha’s fine mouth curved up in a smile. ‘At ease, soldier,’ she said, and he relaxed, fine hands clasped obediently behind his back.

‘Permission to speak?’

‘Permission granted.’

‘I hope that,’ and here he stopped, flummoxed. He was rubbish at speechifying. ‘Your Excellency, have I displeased you in some fashion? Have I done something wrong?’

Martha examined his face for signs of dishonesty. She stepped close to him. ‘Do you jest?’ asked she, in a tone very close to tender. She laid a cool hand upon his youthful cheek. ‘No,’ said the General, and read what she saw in his eyes, all honesty and honour. ‘I do not think you are much inclined to joking.’

His cheek burned hot beneath her hand. ‘Humour does not come naturally to me, Excellency, but I will cultivate it if that is your desire.’

She lowered her hand. ‘My desire, George, is very plain, but I think you cannot see it for all your honour.’  
He bit his lip shyly as he at last caught her meaning. She leaned in then and kissed him, for they were of a height, His hands flew to the lapels of her frock coat to catch his balance, and her hand found the back of his head to aid him. When she pulled away, the stoic George emitted a light whimper. She smiled at him, his commander, and led him to her bed there, under the stars, and so began the lesson.

On the subject of kissing, continued; finally, this is what Alexander had to say about it—

Alexander found, to his welcome delight, that he thoroughly enjoyed being kissed. In all his time with the Schuylers he had seen Philip and Catherine exchange precisely one such intimacy. As a child in St. Croix his father had often kissed his mother, and she him, in return.

However, as we have at last set the scene, drawn tight the curtains, and barricaded the door, perhaps we should leave them to their own devices. Every couple, especially one so well-suited to one another as this, deserves complete and utter privacy on their wedding night.

Alexander thought that the manual had mentioned none of the particulars in kissing with which George was presently lavishing him. The places were very different. The mouth, the ears, the neck, and below that, to the shoulders and still further down.

‘Why do you do that?’ Alexander asked, after an interval. George looked up at him, dark-eyed from below his heavy brows. ‘That is not something a man should expect.’

‘No,’ George concurred, and then he moved his mouth to elsewhere and back again. ‘Nor that, I should think.’

Alexander was too excited to be shocked. It was over very quickly, at least that part of it was, and then George encouraged him twice more to completion. At last when the time came he said, ‘You will be more comfortable if you turn over.’

‘Like this?’ asked Alexander, and flopped immediately onto his stomach. His pinkened cheeks were very hot against the cool of the linen.

‘Hands and knees will do, if you please,’ George answered.

‘Oh!’ he exclaimed with surprise. ‘Is that the way it is done, then? Between people, I mean! At South End I have seen the horses, and of course the cows. And the barn cats.’

‘Only between some people,’ said George, and here he swept aside Alexander’s loosened curls with one large hand and kissed his neck once more. Alexander shivered at this. After some moments, George gently touched his waist. ‘Alexander?’ asked he, ‘are you all right?’

‘Hm?’ said Alexander, and his voice seemed to emanate from very far away.

George stroked his back, nape to tail, and observed, ‘You are trembling.’

‘I do no such thing,’ insisted Alexander, ‘I am fine.’

‘Very well,’ agreed George, ever-cautious, ‘if you are perfectly sure.’

Alexander swallowed, and did his utmost to accommodate the intrusion. The pain was tolerable but intense.

‘I did not see this picture in the books,’ he remarked after a good while, when his body had acquiesced at last.

‘Ah,’ George said, ‘No, but of course you would not have. It is unknown in them both.’

‘Did you have one?’ Alexander was curious to know more about his new husband’s past.

‘No,’ George answered, truthfully. ‘Martha — the late Mrs. Washington — she did of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Alexander, breathlessly. And then he repeated the noises from the carriage, much amplified.

‘Another time, if it please you,’ George said, as his strained voice broke into a groan. ‘There may be a more, ah-appropriate situation than this. But how fare you?’

‘It hurts,’ Alexander grumped.

‘Oh,’ said George, and stopped what he was doing. ‘Oh, dear Alexander, I am so very sorry.’

Alexander was altogether put out by this politeness. ‘That does not indicate that I wish to have you cease. I am not a teacup,’ insisted he, ‘I assure you, sir, I will not break.’

‘You will tell me if it is too much?’ asked the man of honour.

‘Yes,’ shushed an altogether impatient Alexander, ‘yes, and yes. Oh, very much so, _yes.’_

Outside their room, the house was still, its inhabitants silent. Peggy, who was asleep, shifted against Eliza, who was not. Aaron Burr read his Bible whilst seated at his desk, and then knelt by the side of the bed to pray. Mulligan and Philip had retired to the kitchen for speculation, brandied tea, and the last scrapings of the blackcurrant jam on toast. Beyond the door, down the stairs and out through the yard, Nelson stood in close proximity to the southern wall of his stall, which still retained a trace of that afternoon’s lingering heat. He chewed placidly. A speckled barn cat yawned into the pure dark of the night.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _George Awakens — Alexander's Many Questions — On Bookshops — A Bath_

As the sun began to rise on the day after Alexander’s marriage to Mr. Washington, the latter man’s eyes opened to the dawn. This transition as ever came easily to him: one moment he was sound asleep and in the next awake. He looked back at Alexander, unawake, and then he shifted, carefully, in order to return Alexander’s arm to its position of the night before. After the candles had been safely snuffed out George had laid on his right side (which was the side that he had always slept on), and Alexander had turned to his right as well (as that had been his side of his previously shared bed), and then inched himself closer, fitting his knees to George’s own, and flinging a possessive arm across his waist.

While the morning whispered itself awake, George dared not turn his head for fear of disturbing Alexander’s rest. Indeed, he hardly breathed, but instead listened to him snuffle softly against the broad expanse of his muscular back, and they lay there thus entwined until necessity ultimately forced him to rise.

Alexander (who detested all times before ten o’clock purely as a matter of principle) merely winced a small amount when George at last slid away and out of the bed. In his defense, he had been truly exhausted the night before. When he at last awoke, a solid three hours later, he opened his bleary eyes and wiped them. He yawned, stretched, and looked around the pink bedroom for his husband.

‘George?’ he said to the ceiling. He bent one knee and pulled it in towards his stomach, then immediately regretted doing so, and consequently pushed himself up onto his elbows, with the blanket clutched demurely in front of his chest.

‘I am down here,’ boomed a voice from the foot of the bed.

Alexander walked over on his knees to peer over the edge of the mattress. By now the blanket was well-tangled around him, and draped rather like a Roman toga. He was very high off the ground, and looked down to see Mr. Washington doing his morning calisthenics, in his usual shirtless manner. This extraordinary spectacle he had not chanced to see while they were ensconced together at the room above the tavern. Mr. Washington had sensibly wished to keep Alexander’s mind and pulse at ease, and so had removed himself to a small patch of dry grass just beyond the stables where (he thought) nobody paid him any mind. To rightly ascertain the facts, he, and his exercises, had been the subject of some ill-mannered conversation amongst the lesser sorts of women who frequented that drinking establishment.

‘Whatever are you doing?’ Alexander demanded of the man on the floor He clutched the blanket just below his collarbones and narrowed his eyes. ‘For that matter, for how long have you been awake?’

George twisted onto one powerful forearm with a grunt. ‘For some time,’ he said, politely, though his bare arm shook. And he continued, ever considerate. ‘Did you sleep well, Alexander?’

Alexander passed his knuckles across his eyes again, as if willing the scene to dissipate before him. It was altogether unprecedented in his narrow field of experience. Given that he used to dwell upon the illustrations in his (or rather Eliza and Peggy’s) history books, we might also prompt the reader to remember that Alexander seldom read that far ahead in the text, distracted as he was by the depictions of warriors in repose. 

‘Very well,’ he answered, which was true. His shoulders hurt, and the sinewy bits above his knees, and his backside was understandably quite sore. Yet all of those aches had blurred into a pleasurable haze, and he had fallen asleep directly as his head had fallen upon the pillow, and passed the night without waking so much as once. ‘But you have not answered my question!’

The other forearm was laid upon in its turn. More muscles quivered. Everything was very exciting and novel. Alexander rewrapped the blanket around himself as Mr. Washington looked down at the ground. He ran his fingers through his own hair, which was by this point extremely tangled.

‘Exercise,’ said George, and repeated the whole endeavour. Alexander gawped and gaped for a while, and then thought of another question to which he would like an answer. They were properly married men now, and so he availed himself of every opportunity in which to pose them. Had Mr. Schuyler’s manual been nicked as well as Mrs. Schuyler's, then Alexander might have learned, if not good habits, then at least the shape of them. Of course they are meant to guide the conduct of husbands with their wives, but the general principles still hold between two men.

_In brief, your mistress will be in better humour if you speak only upon such topics as which give her pleasure, and refrain from complaint in your own matters. Though if she is a kind women, then the desire for candid speech may undoubtedly occur to you, but heed your better judgment, and restrain such impulses. If questions are to be asked, particularly regarding matters of household economy, intimacy, or your pin-money, then it is best to keep them brief, civil, and unclouded by masculine orcheisia. Your wife will appreciate it if you limit your queries to a few minor incidents a day, rather than troubling her patience with every imagined slight in your purview. Again, you are to be at all times cognizant that you serve entirely at her pleasure, and it is through her grace that you have been allowed any profound advantages in her household. In olden times, a man might have uttered a complete sentence but two score times in his entire life, and indeed there are some old-fashioned women who might make the case for a return to such a state of affairs. Be that as it may—_

‘You do this every morning?’ he asked incredulously. ‘For hours? You have been awake for hours? Doing this?’ (If you are keeping count, Reader, then the questions put to George by Alexander now totalled six in number.)

‘This is but the physical manifestation of my labours.’ George told him, and explained, in a few small words of short syllables, the breathing, and sitting, and movement, and then more of the same. Any one of these without the other would upset the delicate balance of the male body.

From where Alexander sat, or rather knelt, Mr. Washington appeared the very opposite of delicate. Alexander might have noticed the scars of old wounds that adorned his torso, had he not been so preoccupied with committing to memory the strong shape of his arms, the ripple of the veins in his neck, and the wholesome sweat that ran down into the centre of his chest.

Alexander shook his head; obviously, there was nothing to be done about it. ‘Very strange,’ said Alexander, and then, paper and pen retrieved, the manual scooped up from the floor, he climbed back up into the bed and flipped ahead to the chapters he considered most relevant to his own life. The cake, which Mr. Washington had not touched even though he had been awake for hours already, was later retrieved and consumed, and a glass of wine drunk. Eventually Alexander stood up, put on his dressing gown and announced that he would go out to procure them a proper breakfast.

‘Will you have tea?’ he asked Mr. Washington, who was sitting with crossed legs on the hard wooden floor. ‘Or is it coffee that you prefer? I should have noted this much sooner, for then I would have been able to surprise you! And you would have been, I think, more than a little pleased with the perspicuity of the man to whom you are now married!' (Eight questions had by now been posed in the very short amount of time which had passed since he awoke.) 

Mr. Washington said from behind closed eyes that he would take whatever Alexander took very happily, and no more was enquired about his preferences. 

When Alexander returned, some time later, he was bearing a black enameled tray containing a plate of cold chicken, a teetering stack of toast, tea, coffee, milk, two kinds of cheese, and a small vase of violets, thoughtfully provided by the housekeeper. Mr. Washington was by now very slightly more decent, in that he had donned his shirt. Yet he started violently at the emphatic slam of the door and dropped _A Guide for Young Wives_ onto the floor, where it landed and splayed open to one of the more pragmatic, if disturbing, later chapters — the one which comes between the extensive sections on _Discipline & Punishment_ and the fourth revision of the Appendix on Wayward Husbands. You may allow your mind to supply the particulars, but we will not reproduce them here.

‘Mulligan has rather laden me down,’ he remarked, and then gratefully permitted Mr. Washington to relieve him of his burden. He tossed his touselled head as he clambered back up onto the bed, wholly ignorant of the ill-treated manual beneath his bare foot. He moved aside one of the fluffy peach and white pillows and frowned at it. Then he gave Mr. Washington a particular and meaningful look. ‘Will you come to bed?’ he asked, and then pouted for a brief moment when a response was slow in forthcoming. ‘Is this all the honeymoon we can spare? For if so, then we must make the most of our time.’

‘I wish I could give you one,’ George said, quite sincerely, and set down the tray with calm reverence. He came closer and leaned over to gaze lovingly at his husband. The backs of his hands brushed across Alexander’s hot cheeks, and he kissed him on the forehead. Alexander fairly thrummed beneath the touch and said, eagerly, ‘When this is all over, I must insist that you take me to Paris. Will you take me to Paris?’

‘Paris,’ he repeated.

‘Well, of course that depends on the course of the war. It need not be Paris. Have you been to Scotland? I have always wanted to go to Scotland.’ (Ten questions.) 

‘Mm,’ hummed George.

‘You are right, of course,’ said Alexander. ‘The decision can wait,’ he observed. ‘I will read about both places while you are gone, and write you many letters, and you must tell me your opinions, and which you prefer.’

‘You will write to me?’ George asked, very touched at the notion.

‘I fully intend to,’ said Alexander, and then all at once he found his mouth stopped with a passionate kiss. ‘But, oh!’ he exclaimed, as George's large hand encircled his wrist with heated passion. ‘Oh, perhaps there has been enough talking.’

The room seemed to grow smaller until at last the bed took up the greater part of it, in fact, all of it, to speak plain. Alexander, too, felt as if he was expanding in ways that had previously been impossible, as when a man has refrained from exercise for a long while, and when he chances to take it up again (whether from an idle comment bestowed from his wife or, if he is younger, his father, on the importance of remaining slim and desirable to a lady), then every fibre of the disused muscles burns with the exertion. So did that day pass for Alexander in pain and also pleasure.

All of the things were done in the manner in which a truly spoiled man would be given them; and then, after a hiatus, more wine, several pieces of chicken, a short digression on the writings of Ada Smith, a multitude of questions, too innumerable to count, about how many bookshops could be found in London, which is of course home to a variety of establishments associated with the book trade —  at present, we may count no fewer than a baker's dozen sellers of books in new mint condition, three times as many who vend them used, another ten lending libraries, for the use of the general public, a workingman's reading society, for poor folks with no real schooling, who are taught their letters by men who have faithfully served the church, and as many bookcarts, publishers, printers, and pamphleteers as to fill the whole village of Canterbury. There followed an interlude during which Alexander fell asleep on George’s once-again bared chest — after which all the situations were conveniently reversed, and a thousand more questions put to a truly beleaguered George. 

‘I wish to be thorough,’ explained Alexander, and made a note of what transpired (very much, as, Reader, your own feverish imagination might readily supply) in his head. Later on, he would of course write it all down. ‘And it seems, indeed, most equitable, to share in the labour of lovemaking like this?’

‘Truly equitable,’ said George. He gasped agreeably.

‘Interesting,’ Alexander observed, and then, with his free hand, tucked his hair, which was by now extremely tangled and sorely in need of a wash, behind his ear. He struggled to keep his eyes open, to see the effect his actions had on Mr. Washington, but they also wished to flutter closed in blissful pleasure, entirely of their own accord.

‘Alexander,’ protested George, as he clutched at the sheets. His own eyes wanted to open but he forced them closed. ‘I beseech you, you need not debase yourself thusly on my account.’

Alexander’s mouth released itself with a soft, wet sound. ‘Truly, husband, you protest far too much for my liking. I insist that you permit me to continue, or I will be forced to find another way to convince you.’ True to form, he refused to wait for approval or approbation, and continued his motions until they had both been repeatedly satisfied. 

More time passed. That night Mulligan rapped on the door and conveyed them a late supper, and Alexander enquired about the likelihood of his having a bath. The largest pots were set to boil in the kitchen, and the copper tub fetched and placed in the middle of the room. A small stool was located for Mr. Washington's comfort. Alexander had the first bath, and sighed happily as he sunk beneath the scalding water. By now every piece of him had been set aflame and the flames doused more times than we would care to express. 

George held the pure green soap in his hand and dragged it back and forth across the boar bristles of the brush until it created a good quantity of rosemary-scented lather, and, with Alexander’s wet head laid back so that it hung over the side of the tub, he began to wash his hair. Alexander huffed a sigh as George eased the tension from his scalp with his capable hands. Tonight he would sleep at South End, and bright and early tomorrow morning, at what he considered a very uncivilized time, they would be trundled into a hired carriage, Nelson acting as the fifth for the coach and four that would take them all the way to London.

‘Lean back,’ said George, and upturned the pitcher of warm, clean water over Alexander’s scalp. He relaxed further into his bath. Questions remained unasked: would he be given leave to visit Alexander at Mount Vernon? Would the war continue indefinitely? Would he be given a promotion, and what would that mean? Who would hold the account on the hundred pounds Alexander had been promised as his dowry? How would they go about obtaining it from Mrs. Schuyler? Was there a circumstance under which Alexander might be permitted to draw cheques on Mr. Washington’s account?

The journey would see these questions, and many more, but for now we will leave them to their married bed, and their well-deserved rest at last. 


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Farewell to South End — Journey by Coach — A Dinner Party — Mr. Washington's Promise_

Early on the following day Alexander and Mr. Washington were packed up into the carriage with such few things as they would need for their journey. The bulk of Alexander’s meagre possessions had been sent ahead by slow coach and would be awaiting him when he arrived in Suffolk at Mount Vernon, which was to be his new place of residence.

Mornings are always unpleasant; partings even more so. Tears were shed, mostly by Philip and Mulligan, both of whom embraced Alexander no less than thrice apiece. Mulligan even clasped Mr. Washington to his own breast, in a spontaneous outpouring of emotion. Mr. Washington appeared wholly discomfited by the embrace, but permitted it nonetheless. Eliza’s fine face was pinched and drawn, for she had been up half the night with her own private sadness. However she hid it well enough for Alexander to be helped up into the carriage by Mr. Washington and did not cry. He poked his head through the window and said, 'Don’t forget to write me, and, well, wherever Peggy has got to, see that she writes as well. You will have a letter from me tomorrow, I expect. I will write it directly and tell you all the particulars of our journey and anything amusing or diverting I come across.'

'Farewell,' said Eliza, and it sounded a blessing and a lament. They clasped hands through the little window, and she stepped away only when the coachman spurred the horses to movement, with Nelson doing his best to stay abreast of the other four. After all, he was a warhorse, and they were but mere draft horses. Everybody waved his or her handkerchief. The drive which led up to the house receded until it was but a miniscule pinprick, and then the coach veered sharply to the left and then to the right as they passed the linden copse, and all at once South End was gone from Alexander’s view forever.

 

~*~

The journey to London would take them the better part of a week. They travelled comfortably, companionably, and both men exercised a reasonable amount of self restraint. Taverns and hitching posts were stopped at along the way. Alexander read and wrote, even when the terrain was bumpy or the light failing. Mr. Washington observed the way in which he used the back cover of one large book to serve as a sort of desk, and made a mental note to enquire about commissioning a hinged wooden box for Alexander to use during his subsequent travels, and which would provide a more convenient and secure place in which to house his papers, wax, ink, stamps, seals, ribbons, and so on, as opposed to the haphazard manner in which they now littered the seats, the floor, and Alexander’s lap.

A pleasant room was engaged each night, and Alexander very often fell asleep on George’s shoulder before they had arrived at their stopping place, so very much did he tire himself during the day, and so much did George tire him at night, that he would have to be carried up a narrow and winding set of stairs like a limp sack of potatoes. Then George would go in search of something to serve as supper, and fetch a bit for Alexander, who would wake up, and yawn, disconcerted, and partake of whatever George provided him with, and very often, beseech him for still more.

London approached; London arrived. They were to be housed with Lady Catherine, Angelica, and John until Mr. Washington’s ever-nearing date of departure. Their rooms were small but comfortable, reflecting Mrs. Schuyler’s exceptionable and gracious taste. They were also fêted with a small dinner at the town residence of Mrs. and Mr. Church, located not far from the Kensington High Street, directly west across the park from Lady Catherine’s more modest rooms in Mayfair.

Mrs. Church sat at the head of the table with Mr. Church opposite, and, then, according to rank and position they were so placed down the line, each according to her station: Lady Catherine was sat to Mrs. Churches’ right, and at _her_ right-hand elbow was Angelica, and then, instead of Mr. Schuyler — for a man cannot sit next to his own spouse at supper! — was Mr. Washington, and then across from him, Alexander, who was furthest from the important conversations but close enough to feel several times for Mr. Washington’s foot with his own beneath the table, and then at last John Church Schuyler. As they were an odd number, enquiries had been made to find an eighth, and so a Parliamentary colleague of Lady Catherine’s, a stout, progressive, and always-smiling woman by the name of Mrs. Madison was also in attendance.

The guests were perhaps other than the ones Alexander would have himself chosen if he were permitted such choices. His ideal party would have a small society, for his own world was still altogether limited, and would be composed of himself, Eliza, Peggy, and Mr. Washington, and perhaps John Laurens’ for Eliza’s sake. Mr. Philip Schuyler would also perhaps be acceptable, though in this hypothetical party (as well as in the real intersections of their circumstances), Mr. Schuyler consistently seemed out of sorts when in the towering presence of Mr. Washington, and, unlike his usual free and open conversation, he spoke to him but little.

Mr. Schuyler had remained in Monmouth with the house and the younger children, while Mrs. Schuyler went to town and sat in the House of Ladies, and dealt with politics, and the various problems of the realm. One such problem was of course the matter of the French fleet, which had been amassing off the coast of Iberia, in preparation for inevitable manoeuvres, and which was raised as a topic of dinnertime conversation, much to her chagrin. 

‘Perhaps,’ said Lady Catherine, who was now staring daggers at Alexander over the flat of her soup spoon, ‘it would be best for us to continue this conversation once the gentlemen have adjourned to the drawing room and we have our brandy. I am sure that, with the obvious exception of Major General Washington, they would much rather talk of pleasant subjects.’

Mr. Washington, who could take a hint, replied. ‘You are most courteous, Lady Catherine, but I can assure you that my appetite for political conversation has already been well-sated through my own correspondence. I find that this is more or less in agreement with what is generally reported in the papers, and see no reason to further debate the matter.’

Beneath the table, Alexander clenched his spoon tightly in his fist. Mr. Washington gallantly led with another subject. ‘How did you find Bath?’ he enquired of Mr. Schuyler, who fairly lit up at the line of question.

‘Absolutely marvelous!’ And here he beamed at his wife. ‘I wish we could have stayed there longer. The ruins are very interesting — the waters most bracing to take, though of course Mother has long believed in their curative properties — and the society so very pleasing! Why, we were engaged every single day of our visit, and with hardly the same society twice, which can of course be taxing. Dear Angelica, Mrs. Schuyler, she has humoured my desire to be amongst people for a great deal of our honeymoon. And such people —’

Talk of Bath society lasted through the rest of the soup to the onset of the fish, whereby Mrs. Madison finished out the remaining course with an offhand comment regarding novels.

‘Dreadful tripe!’ said Angelica, very vehemently. If we are being honest, she expressed only her mother’s opinion in place of her own, which she had not yet had ample opportunity to form.

Alexander, whose honeymoon had consisted of exactly thirty-six hours sequestered with his husband in his family home and a journey of five days in a coach with a very hard bench, attacked his fish with more than usual vigour. The fork tines clanged against one another so loudly that Angelica and Mr. Washington both glanced in his direction. It was mullet, which he unfailingly thought oily and repugnant, but as he was a guest he choked down the greasy fish as best he could.

Angelica had more to say, and she said it, and then Lady Catherine offered her opinion on the matter, which was of course Angelica’s own, predictably less dismissive and more disinterested. Now, naturally many novels are dreadful, sentimental nonsense written by overly emotional men — and reading them can be truly evil for their oversexed constitutions, and do still worse harm in creating in them unrealistic expectations of romance — but a statement about the many cannot exhaust the all. Novels, then, are generally to be ignored rather than deplored, but an exceptional few have transcended their medium. These stand as more than simple curiosities, and provide a clear window into the opaque confusion which is a man’s interior life.

‘Oh!’ said Mrs. Madison, and called for more wine, ‘I say, ladies, on this we must respectfully disagree.’ Then she outlined the reasons we have already covered above, and did so with less brevity and more in the way of digressions upon her husband’s reading habits, which lasted well until the beef was nearly finished.

Mrs. Madison had a fair piece to speak about the relative intellectual merits of sentimental writings, and Mrs. Church countered that novels, while pleasant, were but an expression of man’s idleness, and perhaps showed that their time would be better served visiting the poor, or taking up charity, or in the practice of religion.

‘Men have plenty to do,’ said Mrs. Madison, ‘and I know my own husband writes and reads daily. Why, he has joked to me that some fine day he will write a book of his own!’

Mrs. Church here choked on her spring water, and, once it was ascertained that her breathing was unaffected by the misguided passage of that drink, they all settled into their pudding.

‘Dolley!’ said Lady Catherine very sternly, with a reproving glance in Alexander’s direction. She did not want him to get ideas above his sex, though it was rather too late to prevent that from occurring. ‘Mr. Madison is close to his retirement from society. I suppose that if he wishes to spend his time idly in Suffolk with his nose in a book, then that is his business, and of course yours, but it is completely inappropriate for the younger generation of males to waste their time with such nonsense!’

‘You are in Suffolk?’ Now asked Mr. Washington, helping himself to _Crème bavaroise,_ and taking a single polite bite of it.

‘But of course!’ blurted Angelica. She nodded with approval, for she truly enjoyed making decisions on Alexander’s behalf. ‘Mrs. Madison you must give Mr. Madison a letter of introduction so that he may call on Alexander once he is settled at Mount Vernon.’

‘It would be most kind,’ Alexander said, and he was oddly grateful to Angelica, despite her forthrightness. ‘I am to be a stranger in the neighbourhood without any society to call my own.’

‘You may practice your piano,’ reproved Lady Catherine from other side of the table. ‘And of course though Mademoiselle de Noailles is there as steward, and you need not concern yourself with the economics of the estate, I am certain there will be very much you can learn from her about housekeeping.’

‘I will also be down to Suffolk, on occasion,’ remarked John, quite kindly, and looked across the table at Mr. Church, ‘and if I can persuade Papa to join me then we may stay for a fortnight very cozily.’

‘I would like that very much!’ and Alexander smiled to think of having friends of his own. Had he caught George’s eye then, he would have noted the jealous twitch of his jaw, well-concealed but evident for a man who knew to look. A smarter and better-behaved husband would know to curtail any natural flirtation or insinuation between two young and handsome men, even if they are relatives by marriage. But Alexander did not know enough of the world to dissimulate, and his enjoyment of John Church Schuyler's company was genuine. Mr. Washington had naught to worry over, for Alexander’s heart was as faithful as his body, in all times and all things.

The drive from the Churches’ home to the lodgings where Lady Catherine and Angelica, and now John and Alexander and George were also to stay, was more crowded than it was tense. Because they were five, the fit was extremely snug. Alexander daringly thought to suggest that he should sit upon George’s lap, or John might sit upon Angelica’s, or he upon John’s, or John upon his own. George thought that he should be chivalrous and offer to ride up on the bench with the coachman, and make more room for the ladies. Angelica thought that it was good to be with Alexander again, and how his new position as husband had made him much more agreeable (and, to be fair, he thought the same of her).

Lady Catherine was missing her Philip, and thinking idly about John Laurens’ very respectable dowry, and the bill in progress regarding the appropriations of war funds, and whether or not they would ally with the Spain and the Spanish Netherlands — who commanded such an armada that it only made sense, even if their internal policies about religious toleration had become truly odious again — and whether she should keep from Alexander the knowledge that his family had been asking after him, and by this we mean the Hamilton line, the paternal line, who were counted as only rakes and knaves and scoundrels. Very likely they had heard that he had come into some money, or had married well, and were seeking position or favour or pecuniary reward itself — and then of course the bodily agitations of the journey itself, which was, at least, blissfully short, and only a few steps across Hyde Park to her own quiet room, papered in sombre purple and sable.

They parted, and Alexander and George retired to their room. No sooner had the door been shut behind them then Alexander’s head slammed against it with some force, and then hit upon it the wall in the same manner, very close to the lamp in its sconce, which shook in its plaster. This happened a good many times before either one of them spoke.

‘You are dreadful,’ said Mr. Washington, as his teeth grazed against the smooth line of Alexander’s jaw and traversed over to his earlobe.

‘Dreadful,’ said Alexander, hurriedly unbuttoning the endless row of fastenings that lined the front of George’s dove-gray waistcoat. ‘Surely you are thinking of novels, darling,’ and here he mimicked Angelica’s derisive tone, ‘written by the lowest and most sentimental of men?’

'A dreadful tease,' said George, his mouth quite near to Alexander’s own, 'and really, must you lick your spoon so enchantingly, so close to the end of the meal?'

‘Help me with this,’ he pled finally, for his hands were clumsy. Mr. Washington undressed himself with a soldier’s efficiency and, quite unlike a military man, left his clothes rumpled where they lay on the floor.

Alexander’s fingertips explored the scars which marked George’s chest, and the exploration aroused him, and made him fearful to be alone.

‘You will return to me?’ he asked with a pleadful tilt of the head. ‘Oh, I wish you did not have to go!’ And then after he had been kissed, and kissed some more, and undressed a little, and lifted into George’s arms, and with his shapely legs entwined around George’s fine waist, carried easily over to the bed, and kissed yet again, he burst out with, ‘Damn this infernal war!’

‘Alexander!’ said George, shocked not by the curse but the force of emotion which prompted it. Until this precise moment he had simply assumed that, as with his first love, the attachment was disproportionately greater on his side, and merely felt for matters of convenience on Alexander’s behalf. In other words, he only now came to understand that Alexander loved George with as much passion as George did he, and it was only when confronted with the loss of his person did it occur to either of them to recognize the full extent of this attachment.

‘I must do my duty,’ George responded soberly, as he stroked Alexander’s shining hair. ‘But, Alexander, I give you my word that I will not put myself in harm’s way for any cause other than that of my country.’

‘Stay alive,’ whispered Alexander, and here he clung to George’s noble neck. ‘Please, darling, just stay alive.’

‘I will, Alexander,’ said George, and kissed him yet again. ‘I promise.’


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Breakfast with Angelica — The Freedoms of Town — A Carriage is Engaged — Angelica Selects A Most Mysterious Destination_

Morning came and she alone amongst the household saw Mr. Washington transformed into his persona as Major General George Washington. He was awake, exerted, washed, breakfasted, attired in full regalia, and away on horseback before young Alexander had even awoken. Now that he was a married man, Alexander could rightfully expect to breakfast on a tray in his room. But of course, as we have seen, Lady Catherine kept a fairly conservative household, and adhered to the more traditional practices. Unless a man were ill or in some other way incapacitated, then his presence was to be anticipated at table every morning of his life, married or no.

Which is precisely why — after Alexander had helped himself to creamed mushrooms, boiled eggs, and streaky bacon, he found a seat a few chairs down from Angelica, who had laid at her elbow the cooling remains of a cup of quite strong tea and a stack of newspapers — he looked around the table, and upon finding several of their usual company absent, wondered at this. He took a bite of his toast and chewed, thoughtfully.

‘Where is your Mr. Schuyler this fine morning, Angelica?’ he asked aloud, with his usual curiosity.

She turned the page of the newspaper and peered over the top of it at him, her noble forehead on fine display. ‘Poor dear,’ she said, with a rustle of the pages, ‘when we returned home last evening he was all out of sorts, I do think quite unlike himself. He slept very poorly, and though he rose when I did this morning, he claimed to be feeling faint. The onset of a headache, he thinks, though I worry he may have caught cold during our conveyance home last night. Mother will insist on keeping the windows open in the carriage, though the air in London is well known to be most foul. A very countryfied, unsophisticated practice, and one not at all suitable for life in town, but of course she will not countenance a word to the contrary.’

He took another bite of his toast. The sandy shards crunched between his teeth. ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ he said, for he had hoped that John would accompany him to one of the booksellers about which he had heard so much.

London, of course, is no place for a young man, especially a newly married husband, to go about by himself. Of course men may move about freely in town, as it is the chief place in the Queendom where they are at liberty to do so, but these were men of low birth, or servants, or workingmen, or soldiers, or sailors, or companions. Older men of higher station might travel about freely, but even then it was expected that they would prefer to do so with a chaperone, whether a daughter who was an age to bleed or greater, or a friend of their own sex, the better to preserve propriety and their own good name. A carriage would be the preferred means of conveyance, though a private cart could be engaged, or foot travel permitted if all else failed, though this is a quite dangerous undertaking when one does not know one’s way about.

Alexander had seen maps, but a map is a flat and lifeless thing, whereas the town in all its dimensionality is full of people, and noise, and excited confusion. Such a jumble of shops and streets, carts, and carriages, and conveyances of all sorts, such that every few steps offers one a potential wrong turning, or a dangerous corner, an unknown alley, ill-shaded mews, crowded market, busy square, or twisting footpath — that even those who came screaming into this world to the chime of St. Paula’s bells could not possibly be well-acquainted with more than their own little patch of the city. Thus under no circumstances would Alexander be permitted to wander off on his own two feet in search of dangerous knowledge in the form of books. Therefore, he was displeased to hear that John was indisposed, and reached crossly for the jam.

‘And what of your Mr. Washington?’ asked Angelica, signalling for more tea. ‘Is he also unwell this fine morning?’

‘Gracious, no!’ exclaimed Alexander. ‘The man has the constitution of an ox! I have never known him to catch cold, or fall ill in the slightest. Moreover, he is impossible to tire.’

‘Yes,’ Angelica said dryly, and stirred in the milk. ‘So I have heard.’

Alexander ignored the insinuation; though a blush bloomed on his neck, a hot itch beneath his stocks that tickled all the way up to his chin.

‘He is away to Westminster,’ he said very proudly, with his knife poised over the jar. There are, generally speaking, so few men of note in our world that he considered himself very fortunate to have landed one for himself, and could not help but boast of him. ‘Field Marshall Deborah Sampson has requested him for a private audience this very morning! He was away quite early, you know, and I have no report as to when he will return. It may be momentarily, though I very much doubt that. Perhaps by tea time, though, which is more likely. Dinner, I would say, at the latest.’

‘Ah,’ said Angelica, and sipped her tea. ‘A most high honour indeed. You must be very pleased at his importance to our cause.’

‘He is quite indispensable,’ Alexander replied with obvious satisfaction. And then he said, very vainly, ‘Did you know that he has been presented to Queen Georgiana herself?’

Her countenance showed Angelica to be suitably impressed by this distinction, but of course Alexander must be reminded of his place and so she hastily countered with, ‘But so has Mother, for that matter. And to the Matriarch!’

At this response Alexander immediately felt annoyed. It was in the nature of their relationship for Angelica to always be condescending to him, as a sister is wont to do before a younger brother. However, as they were the both of them now adults, married persons before God and the Law, he thought perhaps they might be able to renew their old acquaintance in a manner more favorable to himself. (Angelica was clever, you see, but she was not yet wise. Alexander was similarly clever, though less so than Angelica, but he was not yet patient.)

So he held his tongue as he ought, and merely mumbled something or other about the tendency of fine ladies to always take the side of their own sex, even when a man might also be distinguished by such an association.

More tea was consumed. Toast was spread with precious marmalade from Seville — a particular luxury in wartime. As the mountain passes would soon be snowed in, and the coasts from Brest to Barbary would shortly be blockaded, this jar of bitter orange would be the last one of which Alexander would have the fortune to partake for a good long while. On that morning, though, he scarce registered the marmalade. It could have been damson jam, or apricot, or even strawberry, his personal favourite, and every bite would have tasted the same to his numb tongue.

He looked around the breakfast room. ‘And where is your mother?’ he asked. ‘If my memory serves me correctly, and it has not failed my purpose yet, then I believe she was to escort me to the bank this morning.’

Angelica laid down the paper and folded it back to its original, tidy shape. She smoothed the creases lovingly.

‘It will have to wait for another day,’ she informed him, ‘for she is in private chambers with the Select Committee all through the morning, though I am to meet her at Black’s for a late luncheon. And to be frank, Alexander, I cannot well see what business _you_ should have with the bank at all.’

The piece of toast with its precious cargo of marmalade stopped _en route_ to Alexander’s waiting mouth. Anger suffused his cheek, so he stuffed the toast in his mouth to hide his discomfiture. However when she continued, her words in every capacity but a mere mimicry of her mother’s regarding men and their pretensions to money, Alexander could no longer bear the insult and spoke with his mouth full.

‘Mr. Washington has oversight regarding his own finances,’ he said, as crumbs fell onto the table. Angelica, quite rightly, appeared horrified. He swallowed the mouthful, patted his lips with a napkin, and then said, much more tidily, ‘I see not why the law should not guarantee the same for me.

‘Well,’ said Angelica, haughtily ignoring the streak of marmalade that stubbornly remained on Alexander’s upper lip, ‘of course he is a widower. It is a very different matter.' 

‘And I a married man!’ Alexander exclaimed in turn. ‘The money from my mother’s family he has given over to me to administer as I see fit.’

‘How very progressive of him,’ she said, standing up from the table. ‘If you will excuse me, I must check on John.’

‘Good day,’ he said, and stood until she departed, whereupon he fell hungrily upon the papers and the remainder of the toast.

Despite the treat of the marmalade, Alexander was in a state of high vexation all throughout the morning. He had hoped to complete his business at the bank while Mr. Washington was still in town, and now wondered if that could be finished in time for his departure two days hence. An account of his own was of course out of the question entirely, but he would have one under Mr. Washington’s name, in which the hundred pounds of his meagre dowry would be held in perpetuity. To this stinting amount he might deposit any monies or earnings as he saw fit, though for any withdrawals of greater than twenty pounds he would require documentation from his husband or, if he became unable to provide it in case of death, disfigurement, distance, or any other dreadful cause, then the permission would naturally fall to the current mistress of Mount Vernon. (Her adoptive name was unnecessarily long and unwieldy, of course, on account of its being French, and so from here forward we will name her _Mademoiselle de Noailles,_ although she preferred to be addressed by all and sundry according to her Christian name, which was Adrienne.)

In any case, Alexander would miss the opportunity today to visit the bank, as every person who could have administered the business on his behalf was in some way indisposed, and that made him doubly cross. First John's illness, and now this. He took multiple turns about the room where he and Mr. Washington were staying. He rearranged his hair in several different styles, eventually ending up with the one he had settled upon originally. He had just sat down at his desk and begun composing an amusing letter to his dear sister Eliza, when Angelica burst into his room.

During the interval, Mrs. Angelica Schuyler had paid a visit to her husband, who was languishing in his bed, and who told her in faint tones of his promise to accompany Alexander on his quest for books. As she was also fond of books and especially fond of those who sold them, after a moment of reflection, Angelica decided that she would accompany Alexander in John’s stead, and barged into his room to tell him of this most excellent decision which she had made.

As Lady Catherine had the carriage and four, and Mr. Washington his horse, the housekeeper was pressed upon to engage them a suitable means of transport while they waited in the drawing room. Alexander had a small purse with the remains of his money from his previous adventures, to which Mr. Washington had graciously added several pounds sterling to Alexander’s great delight. He had also very kindly told Alexander that books and other necessities might be procured on credit, if the seller were an honest woman, though he would prefer to engage with her directly, as he was accustomed to conducting such transactions, and dear sheltered Alexander was not, and would very likely be played for a fool by a shrewd mistress.

‘Your carriage, Madam,’ said the servant, ‘will convey you where you wish to travel. The man has said that he has the whole of the morning at his leisure, and so you may engage his custom for as long as you like.’

‘Very good,’ said Angelica. She stood, buttoned her pink brocade coat, and adjusted her hat. ‘Alexander, come along.’

A carriage pulled by two fine chestnut horses awaited them. The driver helped Alexander, and then Angelica, into their seats. ‘Where did you wish to go, Madam?’ he asked Angelica, with all the proper deference a man owes to his superior.

‘Are you acquainted with Bloomsbury?’ she asked the coachman, who nodded. ‘Aye, Madam,’ he said. ‘Very good,’ said Angelica. ‘You will take us as far as Russell Square, and I will direct you from there. The shop is unnamed, so you will not know it from the street.’

‘Very good, Madam,’ the man said, and closed the door upon them. Angelica folded her gloved hands into her lap and stared straight ahead. Alexander knew better than to press her as to their eventual destination, but he was filled with such squirmy excitement that he fairly wriggled upon the bench. It was only at a withering glance from Angelica that he ceased the irritations of his movement, and instead began to bounce his leg upon the carriage floor. The coachman whistled and the carriage lurched forward with some speed towards their shared purpose. 


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Past Russell Square — Behind the Green Door — The Shop Itself — A Most Seductive Purveyor of Books_

As they turned down Mortimer Street, Alexander wondered aloud as to their destination.

‘You will see in due time,’ replied Angelica, and then said no more while the carriage rattled on. 

London, as we have previously noted, has many places from which to buy books. Alexander had rendered enquiries as to which were the best, while he and Mr. Washington were in transit to the capital. Once they had arrived at their destination, he had taken it upon himself to comb the advertisements in the papers, as well as surreptitiously glancing at the seller’s marks on the plates of the books which resided in Lady Catherine’s London abode, and when they were honoured with a dinner at Mrs. Churches' home. 

When they had come within a stone’s throw of Russell Square, the driver slowed the horses to a walk and turned from the bench to hear his directive. ‘Go past the square. Left at the first turning, and again at the second one,’ Angelica instructed, ‘and then down the lane until you see a green door seven houses down, on the right. You will deposit us there, and wait until you are called for again. We may be some time.’

The coachman tipped his hat and carried out her orders to the letter. They pulled up in front of an unassuming row of mews houses. Alexander spotted the green door of the upstairs walk as he was helped from his seat, and his heart pounded in his chest. He desperately hoped that Angelica had not been so cruel as to play a prank on him, and that up the narrow steps which they now gingerly ascended — Alexander first, Angelica trailing after him, pink skirts in her hands — he would indeed find a purveyor of books.

The glass panes in the door were clouded with grease, as if they had not been thoroughly cleaned in a good long while; or, if they had, it was by the hand of a person who had little heed for such things. A small placard — which had yellowed to the colour of old bones, on which a word was written in ink that had oxidized to ochre — had long ago been placed in one corner of the larger window (which was similarly dirty), and which proclaimed the bookshop (for it was, in at least one sense, a shop) to be _Fermé._ As the placard had been leaning in its position against the glass for over a decade, and the shop had been, at least at some junctures during that interval, ostensibly open — then we may begin to ascertain what sort of establishment it was.

Alexander’s pulse thrummed with the novelty of their undertaking and where it had landed them. He was so very excited that he altogether failed to notice the particulars of the environment into which they had entered, and so the task of description must fall to us.

There was a heavy smell in the room, as if it had been shut up for a long time and rarely, if ever, been given a thorough airing. The air was a mixture of odours both pleasant and unpleasant — the metallic hint of mildew, and the squishy smell of dampness whose source was a leak in the roof, and the flat, burnt smell of paper, thousands and thousands of pages of it, coupled with the rich tang of vellum, and atop it all, a grassy note, of the sun-baked aroma of hemp.

‘Hello?’ said Angelica as the tarnished bell tinkled their arrival. ‘Mr. Jefferson?’ she repeated, in a clear voice as she smoothed her skirts down, freeing them of their wrinkles from the journey. ‘Sir, are you presently indisposed? It is Mrs. Angelica Schuyler come to call. I have brought you a potential customer.’

A beaded curtain swished from across the room and then Thomas Jefferson’s wiry head appeared between the drapes. He was wearing glasses. When he had ascertained that these were friends, or at least persons with whom he wished to have intercourse, he graced them with his entrance. The glasses seemed to have disappeared. 

‘My dear Mrs. Schuyler!’ he crowed, and then he seemed to move across the room as if he were skating across smooth ice, and he very deliberately took Angelica’s hand, and very deliberately kissed it, in a way that — had she not been married, and he not a wealthy widower of some fifteen years her senior — might have seemed very scandalous indeed. He was dressed in colours of rich garnet and wine, and a loose, informal sort of coat, more like a sack than anything else, which was either extremely modern or very old-fashioned. Alexander certainly could not have said decidedly which it was, but given the state of the shop, the balance was in favour of it being the latter.

‘Mr. Jefferson.’ Angelica turned to Alexander, and her eyes were dancing. She looked straight past him as if she had momentarily forgotten his name, which she indeed had.

Alexander, who had been rudely gaping at a bin full of maps, rolled up into tubes and tied with hemp string, which stood very close to the front door, now gaped at Angelica. Her face was all nervous smiles such that he had never in his life seen.

Angelica elegantly curtsied and Mr. Jefferson graciously bowed. They eyed one another. The moment stretched like candy floss between them. Alexander might as well have not been in the room, so intently did these two fine minds fix upon the other as their object. Angelica spoke once Alexander coughed into his hand. ‘It is very good to see you, Mr. Jefferson. It has been some time since we were last together. Here, in your shop, I mean to say.' 

‘My dear Angelica, you have not graced me with your custom since the winter,’ he said, and then spread his long-fingered hand in the direction of Alexander. ‘And who might this be, Mrs. Schuyler? And a Mrs., now! To whom do I owe best wishes?’

‘A young man,’ said Angelica quickly, dismissing the question out of hand. ‘Formerly called Church.’

‘Is that all you know of him?’ Mr. Jefferson laughed heartily. The laugh revealed a mouth of strong, large teeth that were very nearly the same colour as the placard in his window, ‘That he is young, and once had a name? My, he must be a very attractive husband indeed if that is the case!’

‘Oh!’ said Angelica. ‘I did not wish to imply — that is to say — he is exceedingly charming, of course — John — his name is John —' and here she paused, remembering at last the companion with whom she had arrived, and said, ‘—but enough talk of Mr. Schuyler, please allow me to introduce Mr. Alexander Washington to you.’

She presented Alexander, who shook Mr. Jefferson's hand. 

‘Hamilton,’ Alexander protested, but he did so very feebly, as he had discovered a whole set of Seneca stacked in a precarious tower by his feet, and that was holding his interest admirably enough to distract from argument.

Angelica was discomfited by Mr. Jefferson’s audacity, at his ability to penetrate her mind with the smallest number of words. By now she had been married for months and still found herself forgetful that she was Ms. Angelica Schuyler no longer, and indeed would never be Ms. Angelica Schuyler ever again. And then naturally her thoughts turned to young John, whom she truly cared for, and yet —and this will strike the reader as wholly scandalous to proclaim, but we will mention it here regardless — though they were matched in many things, it would be an obscene complement to call her husband’s intellect the equal of her own. For most women, for the great majority of women, this would be enough. Indeed, it is to be preferred, for a man cannot very well run the household and tend the fire and raise the children and cook the meals if he is busy studying geometry. Or Latin, or botany, or any of the other noble pursuits that are reserved for women alone.

A woman should be sensible in her choice of partner. It is best, if possible, to choose a man of good name or large fortune, a man of pedigree. If he may cook or dance then so much the better. More importantly he should have no fear of entertaining, be charming with company, attentive to his wife, and kind to her children. Angelica had married excellently in all these things and more, for John Church was rich, and would be a natural, wonderful father. Even when they had produced many children and her service to the nation drew her away, he remained slim, and desirable, and faithfully ardent in his affection of her.

No, what Angelica had discovered, during their short acquaintance, and brief courtship, and honeymoon, and the early weeks and months of their marriage, was that she was in every way superior to her husband in mind. Now, this was to be expected from Lady Catherine’s eldest daughter. Altogether _unexpected_ was that she would dislike the uneven distribution of their mental capacities quite so much. Of course she had her mother, and her work, and her mates from college, and the club — indeed Angelica never lacked for stupendously intelligent women with whom to converse — but they did not _satisfy_ her.

  
‘And what brings you to my little outfit?’ said Mr. Jefferson. ‘I will have you know I do not stock any of the so-called books of self-improvement which report tells me are increasingly popular nowadays. No, I will vouch for the quality of my wares, though you will find novels among them. Dreadful things as a rule, though they keep me in Sauternes and snuff. I fear that if one is engaged in trade one simply cannot be as choosy as one would prefer.’ At this point, it should be noted, he was allegedly speaking to Alexander, yet he looked directly at Angelica the whole while, and she at him. In the olden custom, any younger man should be respectfully addressed through his female chaperone. That custom offered as reasonable excuse as any for his attentions to Mrs. Schuyler, for he did so love the veneer of respectability. 

Mr. Thomas Jefferson, widower of the late Mrs. Martha Jefferson, was unfailingly eccentric in the way that only a very wealthy man without a wife can be. She had earned her fortune in trade, having invested heavily in the Spanish tobacco industry, as well as the import of wines (sweet, dry, fortified, and sparkling) from Cádiz to the shores of the Adriatic, and he carried on her business very shrewdly after her early departure from this world. She had been a kind and sickly woman, and he had loved her, even more than her money, very much indeed. He had come, rather by circumstance and mistake, to own a bookshop. He did not require the income from this scheme, but undertook it because like all voracious readers, he was continually running short on entertainment. What better remedy for an absence of books than a surfeit of the very same, more than any woman who could live three lifetimes, even if she read very quickly, might have?

The two of them conversed, Alexander gawked at them, and stared at the books, and matters continued like this for long enough that the coachman who had conveyed them there grew impatient, though he remained where he had been told to stay. 

Mr. Jefferson, after he had satisfied his piqued curiosity that Angelica’s intellect was as penetrating as it had ever been, and that married life had not dulled her sharp edge, at long last turned to Alexander and looked him over with an appraising eye, as if calculating his worth. He must have found it dear enough to move on, for he nodded once, licked his lips as if in anticipation of a fine sale, and said, ‘Mr. Washington!’ He clapped his hands here with glee. ‘Your Mrs. Schuyler says we are to find you books!’

‘I very much hope that is the case, Sir,’ Alexander answered, sincerely. ‘Although I have but little coin at present.’

‘Well, a man who has recently been married may soon come into money,' said Mr. Jefferson, with a curious degree of insinuation. 'Wine!’ he exclaimed. ‘We must have wine!’ And hereupon he glided across the room again and disappeared behind the curtain. Alexander could hear him, very faintly, humming the traitorous and yet deeply memorable _Chant de guerre pour l'Armée du Rhin._ At this critical juncture, Angelica made motions as if to depart. She was due to meet her mother at Black’s, which was a strict, members-only establishment. Men were expressly forbidden, even in the foyer, and Alexander would be unwelcome there. It was just as well that he would remain with Mr. Jefferson, and take the coach back when he had finished. She gave him a coin with which to pay. 

‘Are you leaving us already?’ said Mr. Jefferson, who had recently returned from the back room with a bottle of _Château d'Yquem_ and three filmy glasses of excellent orgin, though they did not make a complete set, and one was chipped at the corner.

‘I am to Black’s,’ Angelica told him, ‘and I must leave the carriage for Alexander.’

‘Why that will take you half an hour on foot!’ said Mr. Jefferson, pouring three glasses of the wine. Alexander immediately reached for the one closest to him, but was stopped with a reproving look from the bookseller. He retracted his hand as if the look had been a snake. 

‘It may indeed,’ she retorted, ‘but it is a fine day, and a walk will clear my head after being shut up for so long in your shop. It is very close in here, I find.’

‘Very well,’ Mr. Jefferson sighed, and at the doorstep he kissed each of her hands, and then each of her cheeks in turn. The blush on her cheek was undetectable by sight but felt strongly nevertheless. She hastily bid them _adieu,_ with an admonishment to Alexander to drive straight home when they had finished, and to be judicious in his choice of materials, for her mother would be sure to enquire after them, and not to spend the money for the coach on anything frivolous. 

The bell tinkled again, and the door closed. Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Hamilton were at last, alone, and free to conduct their business. 


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Alone with Books — At Black's — A Compromise is Struck — The Inherent Dangers of Novels_

Angelica hurried down the stairs and in her haste nearly forgot the coachman, who shouted after her very rudely. She doubled back, skirts aflap behind her, to remind him that his instructions were to wait there, until such time came as to convey Alexander home, and that he would pay the fare himself. 

‘Very good,’ said the man, and tipped his cap. To speak honestly, he should have been well-accustomed to waiting, given his profession, but he disliked it all the same.

~*~

Back up the stairs and through the green door Alexander sat at Jefferson’s, fairly gripping the arms of his chair. The fabric was worn through in places, the batting threatening to overflow the wiry strands of silk which held it in place. Since Angelica had departed, he had several times opened his mouth with the full intention of making a comment on the weather, or asking some inoffensive question about how Mr. Jefferson had come to possess such an establishment, or where his people hailed from, but (to his continual surprise) found himself unable to do so.

Mr. Jefferson took a large pinch of snuff in each nostril. He sneezed and dabbed his nose with a fine lace handkerchief. He had not, in all this time, looked directly at Alexander. Finally, he folded all his fingers together, save for the two longest ones, whose pointed nails came to rest on the tip of his fine nose. Alexander squirmed in his seat, his curiosity greatly excited.

~*~

Out the door, down the stairs, up the lane, and through the square, Angelica walked with speed, but not purpose. What we mean to say is that she hastened along as if she were very interested in all the goings-on of the street, whether it be a headline proclaiming _QUEEN’S ALLIANCE WITH SPAIN EXPECTED,_ or a fine hat with a purple feather in, or a seller of roast chestnuts, off of whom she purchased a packet on which singed her fingers. She paused before the window of another purveyor of books and novelties, and contemplated the question of whether or not John’s headache might be eased with a small gift, such as of a chapbook of tender verse.

She walked in a fog of her own making, onward towards her afternoon’s required society, of which she longed to be absent.

~*~

Back indoors, the _tableau_ had changed but a fraction. Mr. Jefferson was turning out to be the sort of person who was entirely new to Alexander’s acquaintance, and so he lacked precedent for understanding him.

Mr. Jefferson was, we must grant, peculiar; — but in the way that was common to clever people who have been shut up for too long with only their own intelligence for company. This quality is also, oddly enough, common to booksellers, and so Mr. Jefferson’s ineffable qualities transmuted to an innate knowledge of his stock, and, more importantly, of divining precisely what the woman before him needed to read next. Often, he would take one look at a person, walk off, and return a few moments later with some volume or other. He would press it to her hand warmly, and undercharge for its purchase. This was why, despite the disgraceful state of the shop itself, customers tended to return. 

At last his mood changed and with it his face, from a frown to a smile, and he looked at Alexander directly and bade him to drink. ‘It has aired long enough, though I do fear you will find a vapourous sort of odour around the edges; it has been too long casked, but with the blockade, of course, one can no longer afford to be quite so choosy.’ 

Alexander took up his glass and watched Jefferson walk the perimeter of his shop as if casting a protective spell. Then he paused by a shelf of books whose spines were red and brown and blue and looked to Alexander. ‘How is your Greek?’ he asked, peering over the top of his glasses, which had by some contrivance now suddenly reappeared on the bridge of his nose.  
‘It—’ while here Alexander stuttered, for he felt deeply uncertain as to the stakes of his answering in the affirmative. On the one hand, he did not wish to appear unlearned before such an obviously intelligent and cultured person as Mr. Jefferson. However, on the other hand, though of course through no faults of his own, his Greek was of a very poor quality indeed. Given that Alexander had lacked a proper tutor, and had stolen his education in fits and scraps from Eliza and Peggy, then he was very nearly blameless in the matter. And what sensible guardian would let her ward learn Greek? To what end! It would only lead a man astray. 

Choosing to answer honestly, he avowed, ‘It is perhaps not quite where it should be.’ No sooner was he congratulating himself for telling the truth than instantly he regretted it. Mr. Jefferson slid the small, fine-looking tome of tooled leather back into the place he had removed it from, and instead drew out a large and cheaply made book with a plain paper cover. 

He buzzed around the room, always seeming to be a full a step ahead of his hair, and gathered in his arms an abridged set of histories about the cities and cultures of the Mother Continent (in eight volumes), and a catalogue of the Alexandrine libraries, (in the Greek, for which Alexander would require both textbook and a dictionary), and an epic poem in translation, and a small set of comparative fables gathered from the First World. Then he paused with his hand hovering over a shelf and asked — very casually — a treasonous sort of question. ‘And how do you feel—’ he asked, as if he were about to leave the house and wanted to know whether it looked like rain and he should on caution bring with him an umbrella, ‘—about,’ he lowered his voice, ‘—the war?’ 

Alexander coughed around his mouthful of sweet golden wine. He had never, in any direct way, thought of the war as something about which he could hold opinions, other than that he had been excited to learn about sailors and soldiers when he came to our lands, and to connect the men he had seen engaged in trade in Nevis and later St. Croix, with those among us who undergo great voyages to all the ports of the earth, and return with silver from the Andes, and fine porcelain, and sugar by way of the French islands. For his immediate purposes, he thought of the war merely as an inconvenience which would soon spirit Mr. Washington far away from his beloved Alexander, and for that reason alone he was emboldened to offer the truth to Mr. Jefferson. 

‘I pray that it ends soon,’ he admitted. 

‘Well said, Mr. Washington.' As a consequence of this answer, he added another book to the teetering pile in his arms. Alexander faintly wondered how he would be expected to carry all of these books, and, more worrisome, how he would be able to afford them. 

These books and a few more for good measure were laid atop the desk on which Mr. Jefferson was accustomed to transact his business. Over the remainder of the wine, which he again poured, and sniffed, and chewed thoughtfully, he wrote up a receipt for all of the books. The paper he folded in half and slid across the table to Alexander, with the open edge facing the paper’s intended recipient. Alexander received it, opened it, and blanched. 

‘Mr. Jefferson,’ he said at long last, with a great deal of sadness in his tone. ‘I am most eager to purchase all of the wares which you have — very graciously I might hasten to add — laid here in front of me for my perusal and benefit. But I cannot afford such a sum.' 

‘I am sorry to hear it, said Mr. Jefferson, ‘but in that case I must insist that you yourself choose.’

He stared in abject, silent horror. He had barely enough money to purchase four of the dozens laid before him, and, though marriage had given him strength and fortitude, at that moment Alexander truly expected to burst into tears. He wished to give all these books a pride of place on his shelf in his new study, and to open them at intervals, and allow them to remind him of his first visit to London, and to a real, honest to goodness bookshop. 

‘Oh!’ he emitted, quite distressed at the prospect. ‘Must I?’ 

‘For your sister,’ Mr. Jefferson said, a bit cold.‘I would offer credit. But I do not know you, or whether you may be vouchsafed for.’ 

Alexander pulled out all of the money in his pockets and laid it upon the table. It hardly came close to being enough. The tears quivered wet in his dark eyes, and he looked so truly pathetic that Mr. Jefferson, who was not overly indisposed to being kind on this, or any other, occasion, took pity upon him. 

‘How do you feel,’ he said slowly, as if he were lifting up a the dome of a bell jar to reveal a horrible, winged insect dead pinned beneath it, ‘about novels?’ 

‘Novels!’ exclaimed Alexander, and looked readily around the room, as if one of the novels were to suddenly walk in of its own accord and lay itself open before him.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Jefferson, who was spinning his third helping of golden wine in its glass. Contemplatively he continued, ‘The market for them has, I believe, only achieved a mere fraction of its full potential. By this time next year, Mr. Washington, what is now merely popular will become mania, and then turn, mistake me not, to frenzy.’

‘What proof have you that there will be such demand?’ asked Alexander, who pretensed to know a thing or two about the laws of political economy. 

‘The proof,’ Mr. Jefferson smiled his broad smile, ‘is in the sales figures.’ This made a great deal of sense to Alexander, but he waited to hear what was to be said next before he hastened to agree with it. ‘Imagine a person of some importance is espied reading a novel whilst waiting for his wife in the foyer of Brigg’s! Can you imagine the demand such an incident would cause? Every married man between here and Lancaster will demand a new one each fortnight at least, some even sooner.’ 

‘I see,’ said Alexander, ‘and you will ensure that he is seen doing so?’ 

‘Oh yes,’ said Mr. Jefferson, ‘you are clever, Mr. Washington. Exactly so.’ 

‘What has this to do with me?’ Alexander asked, puzzled. 

Mr. Jefferson gave him a hard and disappointed look, which called to mind Lady Catherine’s withering glances.

~*~

‘You missed a very fine fish pie,’ said Mrs. Madison to Angelica, when she arrived some time later. Her mother sat with comparative indifference upon the divan; at any moment Angelica expected, and hoped, that she would retire to either the card room or the billiards room, and she might sit alone for a time with Mrs. Madison, who was a truly companionable woman. So well-liked was Dolley amongst her fellows that she managed to hold membership at both Brigg’s and Black’s, which anybody will tell you is quite an accomplishment.

‘Mrs. Shippen’s daughter has also dined with us today,’ announced Lady Catherine, ‘though she managed to arrive well in time for the soup.’ Tea was carrying round, a fortifying blend of parsley root, carrot leaf, ginger, and pink peppercorns, and they all took one. Then she said, ‘It would behoove you, I think, to make her acquaintance. 

Angelica looked askance, then at the young lady in question. ‘And how would you propose I do that?’ she asked. 

‘And a blackberry fool,’ continued Mrs. Madison. ‘Excellent, but of course it always is! I am quite fond of blackberries, as anybody will tell you.’  
As for Angelica’s query, Lady Catherine suggested a harmless form of entertainment with which the ladies often amused themselves. ‘Stand her a wager, perhaps? It would be an easily accomplished thing, the work of a moment.’ 

‘On what?’ Angelica shifted uncomfortably against the divan. 

She flicked her hand against her knee and chuckled. ‘It matters not, my dear. It can be anything. If a woman with the surname of Hargood will be mentioned in tomorrow’s papers, or if the next horse you see turn the corner will be bay or black. How long it will take your husband to recover from his illness, perhaps?’ 

Angelica rose, mortified, and chose the least disagreeable of the three options with a wager of a pound sterling.

~*~

Meanwhile, Alexander and Mr. Jefferson had come to a compromise regarding the purchase and enjoyment of books. As the bookseller wished, very naturally, to sell books, he also knew a great many outfits which published reviews, primarily short ones, of novels. He had been engaged to pen some himself, but of course had adhered very poorly to his deadlines. In exchange for Alexander’s assistance he would be lent novels and return them with his reviews, after which Mr. Jefferson would pass them along to the printer’s. His payment was to come in the form of still more books, one for each dozen novels he passed over. The whole exchange would be carried out by post, and of course with the utmost discretion and caution.

Alexander signed the paper Mr. Jefferson put before him, bade the man farewell, and then returned to the carriage with his hands full of precious cargo. The carriage bore him directly back to Lady Catherine’s with his treasures. As the ladies had not yet returned, nor Mr. Washington for that matter, and Mr. Schuyler was still shut up in his room, Alexander resolved to spend time alone with one of the novels, and see what could possibly be so damaging and unnatural about it. Let us remember, however, that he had consumed a great quantity of expensive wine, and so when he laid upon the bed to read (which is always a mistake), he dozed off almost immediately. 

When he awoke he called for a plate and a bath. He washed only perfunctorily, and mostly sat in the water, because he had now begun to read one of the novels bequeathed to him. It was captivating, for he had never read anything like it, and he moved from tub to bed with it open in his hand, leaving a trail of damp footprints across the rug. 

It was just past midnight when Mr. Washington at last returned. Alexander had been reading straight through the night, and only the final fifty pages of the book remained unread. He had nodded off several times whilst trying to complete it, and now with George returned he no longer thought it polite to do so. And it was indeed rude of him to continue reading as George undressed, but he was, by this point, very desperate to know how it ended. The plot, such as it was, concerned a very wealthy woman and her two husbands, who were (as Providence would have it) more entranced with one another than with her, and a large series of follies, misunderstandings, romantic gestures, secret declarations, coded letters, and stolen kisses ensued. The author described every gesture and glance with such flowery gusto that, though it was very bad, he could scarce put it down. 

George had left his uniform on all day, and he was quite worn out. He greeted his husband, noted that he was occupied, and left him to his own enjoyment. Then he removed his coat, and his sash, and his waistcoat, and at last his shoes, and there he stopped. Alexander was outstretched across the bed with the book splayed open beneath him, bare legs dangling off the edge. 

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Alexander, and his eyes widened. His mouth fell open and his eyes had barely completed the page as his fingers were already turning to the next one. ‘Oh! But they!’ 

‘Whatever are you reading?’ asked George, as he came to join Alexander. 

‘I visited a bookshop today!’ said Alexander, with gusto. He turned the page, and a moment later twisted around to peer over his shoulder. George was paying him certain attentions which, while enjoyable, were quite distracting. ‘And I met a very strange man, by the name of Jefferson. Are you acquainted with him?” 

‘Hmm,’ said George, with a hot breath against his tender skin. He was quiet enough on the matter. 

‘Well,’ Alexander began, but his words were cut off by a sort of squeak that made George chuckle warmly, ‘He is a very odd sort of person. He has money — his wife’s money, but I am sure you must have known that. Are all widowers part of the same society? Well, she died — also, I am sorry, that is a poor time to have mentioned it, your poor wife—’ 

‘Alexander,’ George reprimanded, and grazed his teeth against the sweet flesh of Alexander’s backside. ‘You speak too unguardedly, my love.’ 

Alexander’s breath quickened. George’s hand was laid over his ankle, the presence of it hot, though the other man’s palm was cool. He kicked his foot up and down, and looked at the ruff on his right sleeve. He wished he had not been obliged to return Lady Catherine’s marriage manual to her bedside table, for there were sections within in that he very much wished to peruse, and to do so in a way that adhered to the scientific method. To the novel, however, we must also allocate some measure of blame. It had given Alexander ideas. Slowly, he lowered his head to the mattress and spoke against that so that his voice was muffled. 

‘Do you wish to do anything about it?’ he said, and moved his feet an inch wider apart. 

‘Pardon?’ said George, who came to sit on his heels, a position he found easy to get into from long years of practice. ‘I am sorry, Alexander, I cannot hear you when you hide yourself in the mattress.’ 

Alexander thought he had a most excellent reason for hiding himself, and had Mr. Washington’s departure not been so immanent, it is unlikely that he would have mentioned it at all. But scarcity of time makes men bold, and thus it ever followed with Alexander. 

He pushed onto his forearms and lifted his head a few short inches. 

‘My behaviour,’ he said, breathing heavily, to the space between his hands. It was blank and made of fabric, so of course was not equipped to answer any questions put to it, even if they demanded only a simple matter of yes or no in the response. ‘Has been most unsatisfactory.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Washington, and Alexander could discern the surprise in his voice. 

‘I would not say no to a reprimand,’ he continued, and shifted his position enticingly. 

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Washington, who rather liked what they had been doing before, and wished to continue doing it until satiety was upon them. But of course he longed to please Alexander, to render satisfaction unto him, and he asked, with a tickle in his throat, ‘What did you have in mind?’


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Realizations by Morning Light — George's Attentions — John's Observations — Lady Catherine is Displeased_

Alexander, while he slept, was beautiful. As has been made abundantly clear, George had been trained to be a man of strict habits; — and thus habituated did not lie abed once he had woken. Yet he had made an exception today, as he had done, quite unexpectedly, the day before, and the one prior to that. body had served him well these forty-odd years, and for a man of action it bore little in the way of physical complaint. Had he missed a week, or a month, his figure would have grown less defined, to be sure, but the overall stature would remain. This was of course because he was a perfect specimen of a warrior, with a body that would never break, or falter, and why he had been chosen. However tall (strong, broad, powerful, &tc.) George might have been, when placed beside his comrades, he almost seemed slight in comparison. Even still, he, and his body, could afford a break.

Such a word as _slight_ might better, in this instance, might circumscribe our Alexander, who was in possession of a body both slim and soft, which is a most fetching combination in a man of four-and-twenty. George naturally enjoyed to lie with him, and (perhaps even more so), to look upon him. In the cold light of early morning he gazed upon the sweep of Alexander’s eyelashes, dark against his full cheek. He might note, in a manner he had been too preoccupied to fully appreciate the night prior, the slack pinkness of his mouth, or the soft blackness of his hair, or the sharp and pointed line of his chin. On the morning in question, he had ample occasion to observe the expanse of Alexander’s neck, and the regions below it, and pay heed to those marks which George himself had imprinted there.

The beloved object was ignorant of George’s attentions, for he was sound asleep. Mornings were anathema to him, and so George had time in which to watch him without interruption. Alexander turned, snuffled; thrashed for a frightful moment. His eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly, but George naturally perceived them. At last a sound came from deep within his throat: a sort of croak, such as might be emitted by a tree frog in distress. Even this noise George found to be very pleasing, and it caused a spark of joy to light up within his chest. 

But then so it must be when a person is newly joined with their mate. All is goodwill, and fondness, and joy. The cares, of course, will come later.

They remained thusly until it was drawing near the time to join the family for breakfast, and George at last made motions as if to shift his position, and stand, when Alexander spoke, in a loud clear voice. ‘Come back to bed,’ he said, as his head rolled away and back. Alexander’s eyes had remained closed the entire time George was looking upon him.

It bore a certain similarity, with a reversal of position, to the occasion of their first coupling, when Alexander had been given leave to examine the particulars of George’s person. During that incident, however, George was wide awake. Now he was come to understand that this entire morning had been a ruse, and that his husband’s own state of wakefulness had been neatly obscured from his powers of observation.

Love will do that to a man.

‘You are awake,’ he noted, with surprise and passionate feeling.

‘I am awake,’ replied Alexander, his clever mouth hot against George’s bare chest. ‘And you are awake, and it is, I am sorry to say, far too early.’ He yawned, and this was, to George, also deeply endearing.

At this George hummed. He settled himself back in their previous positions. Then with Alexander in his arms, he regretted, not for the last time, that he had fallen so in much love with anyone, to be so soon departed from England. This would become a constant refrain for George; with Martha he had always been left behind, and now, for the first time, he came to fully comprehend the pain of leaving.

Before he was to set sail, however, there was the business of the bank, the particulars of which were to be attended to after breakfast. Finally, with reluctance, George extricated himself from the sinewy tangle that was Alexander, and breathed, washed, and dressed in short order. Alexander watched, and complained, and took special care with his own toilet, as a visit to the bank demands. One must always look smart when requesting sums of money from powerful women. Very well-attired did they both appear, indeed, when they joined the rest of the party at table, John remarked upon it for its unusual circumstance.

‘Why,’ he exclaimed with tones of wonderment, ‘Alexander, I am not accustomed to seeing you dressed so finely first thing in the morning.’

Alexander glanced down at his own attire, which George had picked out for him: green silk, his best stockings of sheerest ivory, high shoes that forced him nearly onto tiptoe and thrust his calves into greatest, shapliest relief. He looked at George, in his ensemble: black velvet, so minutely tailored that the shallowness of his inhales and exhales was abnormally constricted, and the whole rear of his person, and the top front of his person, and the bottom front, for that matter, were outlined most conspicuously. Then he turned his attention to Angelica, who was wearing sombre eggplant for the occasion, and then at last at Lady Catherine, who was at ease in her loose gown. The woman had not yet donned her hat, but gave every air of already having done so, so superior did she look to them all.

He said, as he sat down near the foot of the table, “Our appointment at the bank follows breakfast, John. We will go straight there.’ And then Mr. Washington, who set a plate before him, was acknowledged with modest thanks, before going to collect his own breakfast.

‘Yes! Oh, of course!’ John said, his black eyes now regaining a glimmer of their usual liveliness. For though his headache was indeed relieved, his freshly-shaven cheek remained unusually ashen, and his cravat was tied with the most casual and careless of knots, as if his toilet had caused him undue bother that morning. ‘My, this is exciting!’ he said, to the table as a whole.

Then, noticing that his wife required tea, he poured her some. Mr. Washington followed suit, and did the same for Alexander. John tilted his becoming head and addressed his brother-in-law with some excitement, ‘Alexander,’ he exclaimed, now fixing him with the full force of his attentions and leaning in close, ‘you must make me the most solemn promise and relate to me all that transpires once you have returned. Oh, I am anxious for every detail! I have never been inside of a bank. Mama took care of all that, of course, and now it is Angelica’s turn to see to our investments. I am sure they will turn out most satisfactorily. She has invested,’ he nodded at his wife, who looked queasy, ‘in the Scots stock markets, if I am not mistaken?’

‘John,’ cautioned Lady Catherine from behind her paper, with a rustle that quite neatly put a stop to the young man’s natural curiosity and early-morning loquaciousness. Alexander alone took heed of his bruised pride. The symptoms of these (of which her words were the cause) he recognized immediately in the expression of John’s face. He had been the luckless recipient of Lady Catherine’s disdain for long enough to fall beneath her shade. Polite to a fault, John covered such feelings by a demure cough into his napkin. When her head was again obscured by the print, then did Alexander dare to nod, merely giving a lift of the eyebrows and a tiny shift of the chin to indicate his assent. The pain of concealment was upon them both, and this, for what it is worth, brought them newly together.

Angelica, who was in the habit of thinking about herself rather than others, felt this to be a direct affront from her mother. The invisible sneer critiqued Angelica, as opposed to John. Lady Catherine was a skilled enough orator to know how to accomplish such a feat with merely an uptick of her vowels.

‘We will have plenty of time to speak freely,’ said Alexander, in a whispered aside to young John, ‘when the ladies have their tea this evening.’

Lady Catherine overheard them. ‘Perhaps you will miss it,’ and here the woman addressed her remark to Angelica, without so much as a glance in the direction of the men who shared their table. ‘It is best to stop several months before one wishes to conceive.’ One corner of the newspaper flapped down with a swish as she glanced over it at her daughter. ‘We should think of paying a visit to Harley Street once Alexander is no longer gracing us with his presence. Then,’ and here she turned the page, with its news of the world, its advertisements for fortified wine, stock reports, and notices for the auctions of entire estates, ‘your mornings will be once again at our leisure, and your privacy,’ (for of course here she did indeed mean John), ‘restored in the evenings.’

In a society where all women are theoretically equal, leaving aside the usual distinctions of lineage, rank, status, occupation, and of course, (in hushed tones), money, it may seem unusual to dwell, in any capacity, on the kinds of men who wish to be seen as women’s equals. Priests will say they belong at home, and writers of handbooks will second this sentiment, and fully explain the particulars of housekeeping, and service, and submission, and all the rest in wondrous, exacting detail. There are of course exceptions. A boy who is tall, and muscular, and eager to please, and good-natured but dim, can be put to wonderful use as a soldier, or any other sort of labourer. Utility must never be sacrificed to beauty. 

There are women, we all have met such characters, who are afraid to look upon men as people. We see them even now, here, seated around this very table. Doing such, recognizing them as sharing in the common well from which womankind spring, might draw their attention to the harmful nature of this sentiment. Thus of course a woman must always be talking down to a man, any man she encountered, as an instantiation of the general rule. No offense was meant by it, and most men immediately recognized their own inferiority, and bowed before it. They became skilled in the art of decorum, and the importance of producing polite laughter at dull jokes. Men learned how to be less bothersome by the mere fact of their presence, to take up less space, to remain hushed and always, always, ready with a gentle smile. They learnt to bear it. 

Women hate men, innately, for that is the nature of man: to be a weak, bileful, sensual thing, deserving of all our umbrage. Angelica had of course been taught, very rightly, to look down upon all men in such a manner. ‘But you _love_ Papa!’ she had once exclaimed, after her mother had explained it all to her, quite plainly. ‘How can you say such cruel things about him?’

Then Lady Catherine snorted, and said, 'Love! Angelica, one cannot love a man, ever, for they, and you must remember this —always — are not our equals. You may share a bed with a man, and birth children with him, and feel fondness for him, but one cannot love a thing so debased and stupid as a man.' 

Lady Catherine, we have seen, rarely dispensed displays of affection to anybody but especially not to Angelica. As the eldest daughter of an ambitious woman, for her was reserved the faintest of praise, the least amount of stinting admiration. Let fathers freely praise their daughters, if they must: a mother’s love should be hard-won.

At the breakfast table, Angelica was shocked. ‘Mother!’ she cried, at once looking round the table as if to ascertain whether these direct insinuations might have been missed by the assembled party. They had all heard, quite crisply, but politely pretended that this was other than the case. Mr. Washington sat with his hands folded quietly in his lap, as he had already finished what little he had put on his plate, and Alexander once again offered silent feeling in the direction of John, for he was in possession of a tender heart, and unused to criticism from any quarter. John deserved, he thought, to be loved as he was. 

But John, a perfect young husband, swallowed his reservations, and did just as he ought, which was call for more tea, and give his wife a supportive glance of silent encouragement, and quietly resolve to visit a specialist of his own, in Gerrard Street, to make the matter of conception as painless as possible for his dear, Angelica, who deserved only the best of everything.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Arrival at the Bank — Alexander is Admired — Interminable Waiting — The Inner Sanctum at Last_

It is best for the society if men remain ignorant of the degree to which women hate them. Now, as with all truisms, of course this contains more than a grain of the unfiltered truth. In no place of work or worship will you find this more evident than in a bank. There men are so anathema to the ongoings that even the servants are women!

Everybody approaches such a place as a supplicant; though she will walk rather than crawl. A woman (even she!) must accept the mantle of her own mortal insignificance before this temple to commerce, industry, trade — all that has made our land so prosperous throughout the ages. Imagine, then, what a young man must feel! How very small and worthless, like an insect or other household pest. Alexander was acutely aware of this sensation as Mr. Washington helped him down from the carriage, his wide hands easily spanning his taut waist. He had no time to dwell on the pleasure of the sensation, however, for they had an appointment, and hastened up the stairs accordingly, They walked up, up, and still, winded and gasping, up, their heels skittering across marble cold and slippery from the morning fog, until the portico at last came into view, and they reached the great iron doors of the front entranceway.

Such wonder! Not even the temples to Athena and Astarte could compare with the splendour of this paean to progress, to prosperity! The sheer scale of the place was unlike any he had ever seen, all dizzying heights of marble in swirls of gray and cream, the exterior ringed by great ornate columns that seemed to scrape the heavens.

Until that very moment, Alexander had never thought that a building could make a person feel anything but safe, cozy, or cared for. He had known the simple houses, (huts, really) of his childhood as well as the shabby elegance of South End, but grandeur such as this! It was a frightening edifice, built to induce awe. A bank is not meant to soothe or comfort, but to impart fear and trembling in all who pass it, and who draw their cloaks and coats tighter around their bodies, and hurry along the street as if they have felt the cold wind of mortality along their spines. Money, especially its lack, is in a thousand ways more cruel than death: this is because death comes to us all, and money is an invention. But we digress.

At this point, when he had stared for long enough, Alexander was elbowed in the ribs by Angelica, and subsequently closed his mouth.

They made their way across the slick portico, past large, brute men standing watch in silly hats. Smaller, steelier women who shouldered firelocks watched over these, and another woman with a ready-cocked pistol stood as a last line of defense between the door and those who might wish to breach it.

Once they had passed the guards and the firearms, yet more challenges remained. The woman who guarded the front desk had a mole on her neck and asked Mr. Washington and Alexander a number of intrusive questions. She commented very freely upon Alexander’s appearance, and he felt now, even more than ever in his life, very much like a veal calf. He stayed close to George’s person, and though they could not touch, as they were in public, he felt his bulk as a calming presence alongside his own small body.

‘Are you on the list?’ she asked Lady Catherine, and she gave her name, and Angelica’s, and then said, ‘We are here with Mr. George Washington and his husband, Mr. Alexander Washington.’

You are sure to have seen the ways in which a married woman may say whatever she likes about a man, provided that she is on good terms with his wife, or is a person of consequence herself. If a man lacks a female guardian, whether through unlucky marriage to a man or the misfortune of losing a wife, then he must gird himself at all times for thorough inspection of his person and speculation on his character. This will come from all from women who feel it is their God-given right to assert their dominion over men. Really, it is merely an excuse to be tedious, especially if they have had a few drinks.

The woman craned her neck to look at Alexander, who was all flushed and hot beneath his fine silken suit. By choosing to wear his finery, he had put himself up for display, and now must pay the consequences in the form of female attentions. To appear in such a manner was a bitter necessity dressed up as choice, and he solemnly regretted having yielded to convention, as her lustful eyes roved freely over his body. They lingered here; they rested there. His stomach swooped as if he were unwell.

‘I say!’ she said, with a cocked eyebrow. ‘Are those real?’

When he had pleased the lady by allowing her to ascertain that the muscles of his calves were natural and not some deceptive trickery, she permitted them to pass into a small waiting room, where a tall and elegant woman with a similarly graceful neck served them thick coffee in tiny cups. After a short passage of time, Angelica and her mother were called through another grand door, behind which one could discern the faint click of calculating machines, and the quiet hum of a hundred women all at the business of making money, and making money their business. George and Alexander waited. They sat, patiently. They waited some more. 

Alexander had worn his finest underthings, which, being the best quality naturally itched the worst, and this was added to the enumeration of decisions which he had now come to regret. His backside had barely time to recover from the events of the previous evening, and with the carriage ride, and now sitting for a very long time in a purposefully uncomfortable chair, he very nearly lost his resolve. How easy would it be to run away once more, down the stairs, with George at his heels, and to flee this place and never look back. But no, he would remain. For the sake of the hundred pounds, he must stay put. 

On the wall above the entryway, the clock, with its heavy hands of silver, ticked loudly. Seconds passed. Seconds became minutes, then ever greater pieces and pieces of the hour. The woman with the graceful neck appeared to remove their small cups of coffee, and when Alexander lifted his chin in an attempt to catch her attention and request that he might have another, she smoothly carried them away without acknowledging him. It was just as well, for Alexander was uncharacteristically nervous, a state of agitation so upon him that a further cup of coffee merely would have increased it.

George sat very straight and still. Alexander fidgeted. He crossed this leg behind the other. A scowl crossed his lovely face as he crossed and uncrossed his arms. His bottom itched in its silk and lace. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and wished, not for the first time, that he had brought something to read. The novel he had finished the prior evening would be given a glowing commendation, written under a pseudonym, which was to be passed along to Mr. Jefferson concealed within the pages of the book itself. He thought as best he could as to what his review might say, and the forms of praise that would be suitable for publication in a gazette.

At long last they were announced. ‘Mr. Washington,’ boomed a lady with a plain dress, a large bosom and flat feet, ‘and Mr. Washington.’

‘Hamilton—’ Alexander began to say, and then, at a quiet shake of the head from the other Mr. Washington, willfully forgot his paternal name in service of the greater good, which was to obtain free possession of his hundred pounds.

The woman who sat across from Angelica and her mother, who were at their ease in fine wingbacked chairs of dark brown leather, had skin as fine yet beaten as the chairs. She looked to be of an indeterminate age, perhaps thirty, perhaps even twice that. Her eyes were bright and penetrating. Her desk seemed as tall as a small pony. 

‘Sit,’ she commanded. She did not stand when they entered the room. Alexander looked around for a place to sit, and, finding the only suitable chairs already occupied, located a low, hard bench that was set off to the right of the great mahogany desk where the banker sat. George remained standing until he was urged, again, by his husband, to join him on the bench. It was quite cozy, and their legs pressed up against one another. Alexander’s feet were slick with sweat, and his shoes chafed against his heel. So many steps! He would have blisters later, and for what?

For the money, of course, which, over the next excruciating quarter of an hour (though it felt, to Alexander, ten times that in length), pragmatic words were exchanged. Alexander was addressed directly exactly once, and that only to ascertain that he understood his account was at all times under the control of Mr. Washington to administer as he saw fit. Mr. Washington was addressed fully twice more than Alexander; to determine the holdings of his long-dead wife, to establish that he had no natural child of his own, and to verify that Alexander would make no claim on the estate, which would pass to Martha’s heir upon his death.

Alexander, who was a kind and sensitive man, saw that this pained George to speak of, and so resolved to ask no questions about how Martha's fortune would impact his own. He had a home promised him, and books, and a strong man who loved him without compunction, and, with a little food and a place to rest his head, that would be enough. 

He was made to sign a whole stack of papers, and George was as well. Then at last, Alexander was given a book of cheques so large they dwarfed his fine-fingered hands, and a stern admonition, though indirect, on the general evils of trusting men with money. 

Then they were free to leave. As they walked from the office, the women were hardly so delicate of George's soft and tender feelings, and spoke of the situation in quite pragmatic terms. ‘Quite lucky of him,’ the banker said as she was escorting the other ladies down a long and imposing hallway into the front foyer. Alexander and Mr. Washington trotted along behind her. ‘To marry a widower, and a man of fortune no less!' 

‘It is a matter of legality, then?’ Angelica asked the other woman.

She nodded at the question, her stride remaining brisk as she did so. ‘Very much. Widower’s rights have improved greatly in the past decade, and men may even keep the estate in their possession, rather than having it revert to the deceased’s mother. Of course that does not apply in this instance. It is unfair to say that he should manage the girl, but, well.’ She turned to Lady Catherine without so much as a wobble. 'An heir is preferred,' she said, 'a legitimate one.' 

Alexander strained to hear what they were saying of him, and George, and implicitly at least, Martha, about whom his store of knowledge was comparatively little, and he would like to know more. Mount Vernon, which was to be in a matter of a week, his home, was a complete mystery to him. He had heard George mention offhandedly that while the house was finely built, and grandly situated, not to mention historic, being bequeathed by the Queen herself to the Royal Cartographer, Martha's mother. 

They passed women with abacuses ringed in clouds of smoke, papers teetering precariously on desks, signals flashed across the room to one's compatriots, and everywhere, women, as far as the eye could see. Then they were taken as far as the door, and bade good day, and through the foyer, and past the guns, and down the steps. Alexander clung precariously to George's steady elbow, for his feet were so hot and blistered, and had so little purchase on the great marble stairs that he was obliged to grip his own thighs very tightly, the muscles of his calves burning, and to clench up in places best left unmentioned, if merely to keep his balance. 

Then they were down on level ground at last, and the coach awaited them, and Alexander leaned back against the velvet cushion with an exhausted sigh, clutching the precious chequebook tightly to his chest. 


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Goings on to the East — Our Reacquaintance with a Frenchman — The Sorry State of Alexander's Feet — Tea and Gentlewomen_

We will pause here for a brief interlude, the better to bring the reader up to speed with all that has transpired while the ladies and their attendant gentlemen have been occupied at the bank.

 

~*~

From his small husband’s chambers in London, John Church Schuyler was seated on a hard-backed chair whose meticulously embroidered upholstery was the product of his own handicraft, carefully turning the pages of his diary. The entire calendar was, naturally, pegged to Angelica’s own. There on the thick ivory pages were fully catalogued, in most careful penship, the particulars surrounding the woman he had married. John was a faithful observer, like his father before him, and Richard had taught him well, in this. Her moods, desires, likes, and dislikes, were all noted down here in great detail.

Later he might reread a particular page, perhaps annotate where possible; especially if some new nugget of valuable information were to reveal itself in either conversation or, more likely, through the give and take of gentle questions that drew out Angelica’s particular preferences. Through careful sleuthing he had been able to glean the following tidbits.

First, that she loathed the scent of lilacs but adored their colour, and would happily admire them from afar in a pleasure garden, but under no circumstances must they comprise part of a bouquet. John was also testing her reactions to the various arrangements of flowers that graced her chambers, the front parlor, and the dining area. He strove to make them pleasing, hoping for a kind word of notice from his wife. Lilies, peonies, and hydrangea, especially in pastels, had proven his greatest successes thus far. Lady Catherine, for the record, detested lilies, but John (as we shall eventually come to realize) was a modern man who valued his wife above even his mother-in-law. Utterly shocking, you will say, and you may well be correct.

Angelica, John had also come to understand in the short time of their union, preferred to wear her hair tightly braided. As well she should, for the long sweep of her neck was very fine. However, her scalp tended to dryness, and so the braids were worn much looser than she would have liked, the better to soothe dry patches with oil and to allow her, when she thought nobody was watching, to scratch at the flaking skin there.

Her favourite pudding was bread-and-butter. John had been hard at work testing recipes with the help of the servants in order to find the one she liked best of all. So far there was one with stem ginger in the custard that had proven quite the winner.

She was shy, sexually, which he had not expected from such a forthright daughter, and which he hoped would not prove too much of a hindrance in her ability to conceive.

John, sweet John, had resolved to ease her burdens in any way he could. When he had finished updating the diary, taking note of what had transpired that morning with his wife’s mother, he began a letter of introduction to a doctor of Chinese medicine, whom men were known to consult when their wives wished to be got with child. The letter was carefully and discreetly written and inquired after the possibility of a visit. Cautiously, John walked it to the post office himself, for it was his greatest desire to keep it secret from the other members of the household.

 

~*~

On the way to mail his letter to doctor of Chinese medicine, John passed by the stables where General George Washington’s horse was being reshod in fine iron suitable for the flat plains of an eastward campaign. The tinny resonance of the hammer as it struck against the nails dissipated into a general hum that hung over the city like soot. The clang was soon swallowed in the buzz of the busy street. Nelson stood quietly in a dust-strewn sunbeam as the farrier worked in a semicircle around each hoof. He was possessed of an intelligent horse’s patient awareness, and could sense that action was soon to be upon him. For this he was glad. A warhorse, you see, demands to be ridden hard, whether across open downs or chalky cliffs; — better still, to flex his strong legs and run headlong into the fray the clamour of the fight in his pointed ears, the thick smell of enemy blood in his wide nostrils as it wafted over the battlefield. He had been Martha’s horse, after all. A final tap completed the arc of his rear left hoof. Nelson swished his tail and lifted the right one to be fitted with its shoe of iron.

~*~

On the southern fringes of Monmouth, in a small home nestled along the border that was no more, Mr. Schuyler was sitting contentedly in the drawing room, though of course missing his wife in the way a married man should. It was his luck that, in taking possession of the morning post, he noticed her distinctive handwriting on yet another heavy ivory envelope. This letter he secreted into the folds of his dressing gown (which he was still wearing, even though it was very nearly noon, and passed the second letter (which was from Alexander) to his second-eldest daughter. It was opened and read to the great delight of the room. After luncheon, Philip sequestered himself away with the second letter, whose contents were for his eyes only. His wife wrote that Mrs. Laurens might call in her absence, and was to be entertained in any fashion which Philip saw fit. The Laurens family were accustomed to extravagance. She said, indirectly but in so many words, that Eliza would benefit from a long engagement, and should finish her studies before marriage would be considered. A June wedding would be preferable; — however he should undertake no contract, merely inquire discreetly around the issue, and — when he had finished — to report back the intelligence he had gathered.

~*~

Back in the capital, Mrs. Church (and to a lesser extent, Mr. Church), were at that very moment, making arrangements for their daughter-in-law to take full legal possession of their Suffolk estate. Another thick cream envelope exchanged hands, again with the utmost discretion, in order to expedite this process. The council election was set to take place in November, and the golden chill of September was even now breathing down their necks.

~*~

Behind a green door in Russell Square in a luxuriously attired room which unfortunately smelt of mildew, Mr. Jefferson placed an order for a dozen thick romances and set _Mount Vernon, Suffolk_ as the intended place of delivery. Almost as an afterthought, he appended the title of a slim volume on literary criticism, written by a sharp-tongued and balefully clever lady known only as _M._ to her readers, and whom rumour held to be the emeritus chair of Literatures in English at Queen’s College.

~*~

A hundred miles to the east, a lanky Frenchman with tousled black hair blinked the sleep from his eyes with their thick lashes, only to find that the woman whose bed he had shared the night before had awoken and left him there alone. As he did not anticipate that she would return any time soon, he decided that the best course of action would be to remain where he was, in case she wished to bed him subsequently upon her return. A gallop across fine terrain in the morning light tended to stir her blood, which was to be expected. She was in this, and nearly all other respects, her mother’s child.

The Frenchman yawned, revealing teeth that would have been the pride of any mother-in-law — very even, fine, and straight, without so much as a hint of yellow about the gums. (Which, for the account, were free of any sign of recession.) His mouth, as we are dwelling upon the whole, was extremely well-suited to the task of pleasuring a lady. Such an asset would have been knowledge enough to endear him to even the most xenophobic matrons amongst us. However the woman’s mother was in no position to evaluate his teeth, or mouth, or anything which lay below those. The lady in question, it must be mentioned, was hardly an enthusiastic advocate of matrimony. She detested the idea of having a man settled upon her, like a dead fox hung round the neck. A man and woman should both be free to come and go, and come again, as they pleased. This was her thinking.

To return to the woman, one may briefly ascertain that her genealogy was storied enough to deserve its own tale. We shall spare but a moment to fix the glass on her ever-receding form, which was at present thundering on horseback across the plain. Her horse, a beautiful gelded bay, she urged on towards a low post fence that he would clear with ease. Rider and beast became one on these mornings, when mist wreathed round the horse’s legs and her high leather boots. Her hair had been fixed poorly to begin with, and at present it was coming undone from the thick and sloppy braid she had spent hardly any time on. Loose strands clung to her damp forehead as she gripped her steed between her strong thighs and hastened him onwards, away from the rising sun.

 

~*~

 

A hundred leagues and a journey of five days by sea, if the wind was favourable, the men of Calais gathered themselves into strict formation at the sound of their captain’s shout. They came to drill today. As they were wont to spar by hand for pleasure, bragging rights, and coin, these exercises were sorely lacking in amusement. Today they wore jackets of gray and pants of fawn, and stocks, and collars, and shirts, and boots, hats, sabres, and all the rest. When they sparred at their leisure it was an altogether merrier affair, with the participants stripped down to their underthings, and their strong bodies slicked with oil of olives. On this day, as on the increasingly sober ones before it, laughter was nowhere to be found. The war had come, and they would go to it. Some men wished for a fight, still others for glory, fame, renown. A very few, melancholy beyond repair, wished for the sweet release of death.

~*~

 

To the south of Calais, in Paris, the churning gut of plot and intrigue, the miserable, short, and altogether smelly Frenchman who had declared himself Emperor and God, sat upon a throne much taller than he was. Here he plotted against the allied Queendoms. To his minister of propaganda, the vile Frenchman (to whom we will not give the satisfaction of naming, though of course he is known to all who fear tyrants) assigned the task of rooting out possible traitors to the Crown, who might be bought for the price of false liberty.

~*~

As we alight once more in London, here we see that the carriage has only just rattled its way to the front of Black’s. The ladies gathered their things before bidding Mr. Washington farewell, for he was to depart straightaway.

Angelica very graciously took Mr. Washington’s hand in her own, and shook it. ‘It has been a pleasure,’ she told him sincerely. The lines etched on either side of Lady Catherine’s mouth lengthened into displeasure, but, as her daughter had been the first to extend the courtesy, so she too would grant it. Lady Catherine sought, above all else, to conserve face. She too shook the General’s hand, and bade him safe travels, and a speedy conclusion to the war.

They rolled on in silence until they were deposited at their lodgings in Mayfair, whereupon Mr. Washington begged leave to visit his horse. Alexander granted it. He had thought for three hours straight of little else but a scalding hot basin of water, in which might be floated a few sprigs of refreshing mint, and the submersion of his aching feet into that tub. He gladly released Mr. Washington on his errand, and found himself not twenty minutes later doing precisely that. For the record, he had been in such a rush to soothe his feet, which had been greatly abused by his stiff, high shoes, that he had stripped himself (nearly!) bare from the waist down, whilst his top half was still clad in impressive finery.

If, some time later, Mr. Washington was surprised to see him in such a disheveled state then he did not let on that this was the case. Instead he began the time-consuming process of unfastening every miniscule hook and eye clasp, every snap, ribbon, and button, until the hard-sewn seams which had so constricted him released at last with an audible creak. George, free at last, gulped in a greedy lungful of air, and held it purely for the satisfaction he took in the expansion of his stomach to its full capacity. Then he snorted out his breath, in a sound that was a perfect mimicry of his horse, and began to dress in his travelling clothes.

Alexander, as the astute reader will have already surmised, had already begun the undertaking for Mr. Jefferson, which was to be a short review of the novel he had devoured the evening before, under great duress and, from Mr. Washington, a significant outlay of distraction. He had pulled a small mahogany table, on which rested the novel in question, a number of slips of paper with clever bon mots scrawled upon them, in case a platitude was needed and the mind failed to supply one, a thick sheaf of foolscap, a blotter, a pen, and an inkstand. Consequently the floor by Alexander’s feet told the story that writing was a much more difficult undertaking than reading, with its crumpled sheets of paper and dozens of false starts. The table, which had been pressed into service for which it was highly unsuited, wobbled. A fat droplet of ink landed on the paper, obscuring the word Alexander had only written there. (The word in question was _sensuality,_ and it is just as well that he was forced to start over, given the vivid connotations of it.)

He crumpled up the page and sighed with exasperation. George turned to his husband with a soft air of concern, his ties undone around his broad neck, and said, “Are you quite all right, Alexander?”

 

~*~

 

Meanwhile, the ladies had been joined at the club by other gentlewomen of their acquaintance, and were vociferously engaged in a discussion regarding their second husbands. Mrs. Madison had remarked that she might simply stop with the one, and her interlocutors expressed shock at such a newfangled notion.

‘It is for Payne’s sake,’ she said, primly folding her hands in her lap. ‘He is so very close to his father, I do not think he would take kindly to another.’

‘Does it matter?’ asked another woman, who was quite satisfied with her second marriage, and indeed had borne a child later than she ought, so happy was she with the young man.

‘He must be married, then,’ remarked Lady Catherine, sipping at her tea. She would not make the same mistake. Three daughters were more than enough to bear. ‘If you know what is best for him, you would not have permitted him to become so dependent on his father in the first place. But a woman, the right woman, with an iron sense of discipline, might change his views.’

Mrs. Madison asked, very slyly. ‘And what of your daughter? Is she such a woman?’

She frowned at the question. Seated a few chairs away from her mother, Angelica likewise frowned.

‘No,’ she said, in a slow drawl. ‘Eliza would be a poor match for Payne. She is too kind, for starters.’

‘Perhaps,’ interjected a different woman with a giggle, ‘you might think to take him for your own, Catherine?’

It was only Angelica’s quick wits that kept her delicate teacup upright.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lady Catherine Contemplates — A Meeting between Heads of State — Difficulties with Language — A Most Exquisite Tutelage_

Angelica’s teacup rattled neatly back into its saucer. An errant whiff of steam tickled her chin, which was all that remained to indicate that it had ever been raised in the first place. The cup contained a strongly-steeped blend of raspberry leaf and red clover which was to be drunk as regularly as she could stand it. The taste she thought very vile, but it would become familiar in due course. The dusty and bitter-tasting teas a woman must consume from her first cycle until her last — save for the carefully-controlled interludes when fertility is a welcomed guest — are initially unpleasant but grow palatable with time. One might even say the same thing about coffee.

Lady Catherine had finished her own tea, which was of the regular sort, and was currently nursing a glass of single malt. Her thoughts were scattered in a dozen different places; we will, here, endeavour to collect them. At the forefront of her mind was the business being conducted in the Queen’s chambers, as Her Royal Highness met with her Spanish and Portuguese counterparts. Secondarily, she hoped that the transaction for the Churches’ Suffolk residence had gone smoothly, but fretted that Mrs. Church had neglected some minor detail and the whole business would have to be begun anew. Thirdly, she was thinking on how long it would take for Angelica to conceive, and decided she would have a word with John about his performance in this matter. Fourthly, she was thinking of her own husband, whom she missed precisely the correct amount. Enough to keep her love for him fresh, yet hardly familiar enough to breed contempt.

In the last she was contemplating James Payne Madison, whom everybody called Payne. This man she had known since his infancy. He was well-bred, attractive, an excellent dancer, sufficiently intelligent, and a few months shy of his twenty-second birthday. A better match for young Margaret than Catherine herself, all told. Her second husband would be found in due time, when the remaining girls were married off. With the house thus emptied, or perhaps with only Eliza and John in residence: — of course she would marry John, for Eliza there could _only_ be John.

It was a shame, she mused, that her middle daughter should be so retiring. Her core was steely, beneath the evident softness of her demeanour. Throughout Eliza’s childhood, Lady Catherine had hatched great plans for her: to enroll in the school of medicine at St. Andrew's, followed by a marriage to a mercantile husband with impeccable manners and a massive, limitless fortune from trade. He would bring money to the marriage, and all Eliza would have to do was spend it. This would allow her to set up a private practice for elite clients, and set out to purchase an estate of her own, if he did not have property already. But, Lady Catherine had come to realize, Eliza was stubbornly hard to correct to her own way of thinking. If she did not wish to do something then she would find a way to do otherwise; the whole conducted with such sweetness and grace that the refusal barely registered. She held out hope for her youngest. On the whole she considered Peggy’s spirits far too high for public life. Likewise her natural curiosity would stymie the machinations necessary for politics.

 

~*~

 

The Queens’ Council met round a table that was far too large for three: a great slab of a thing hewn from a magnificent oak felled in Sherwood. It was naturally symbolic, as these things go, but the heart of the forest does add a certain necessary solemnity to all proceedings of state.

Her Royal Highness was sitting with one of her three cats upon her lap. Another dozed on its side beneath the expansive table. The third had not been seen since before luncheon. Queen Georgiana signed the paper before her with a flourish and laid down the pen with great solemnity.

The Spanish feline was a rare breed from Abyssinia. much in demand by society ladies all across the Peninsula. It was presently sitting atop the magnificent oak table, with its front paws draped inconveniently across the tall stack of advisements that sat before its royal lady. It blinked its golden eyes in the direction of Her Royal Highness Queen Georgiana’s inkpot, which it had already planned to knock over, later, when everybody had vacated the room. The waiting, it found, was proving torturous.

Sensing that the important business had been accomplished, the Portuguese cat, a fat orange tom with a flattened face, jumped down from one of the empty chairs where it had been washing its face for the past quarter of an hour. It landed lightly on pink-padded feet, strutted across the room, and meowed at the door, which was naturally, locked. The regal woman who belonged to the cat pushed her high-backed ceremonial chair away with a beleaguered sigh, and went to open it.

As the hinges began to creak, a dozen important women stood and faced the door. They had been waiting for a long time, in uncomfortable silence, which was solemnly maintained in an attempt to overhear the conversation. Of course they heard but murmurs, for Queens speak softly.

These women, advisers, mostly, with a few military women of senior rank mixed in, drew themselves to full attention. The Spanish Queen watched as her cat padded past the two lines of people standing at their straightest, hands clasped in perfect formation. Their heads turned in the opposite direction, as one, to follow the animal as it departed. The cat walked through another door and, brushing up against an interior wall with a rumbling sound and a twitch of its bushy tail, disappeared from view.

 

~*~

 

‘Bother!’ cried Alexander, when he found himself unable, yet again, to express the thoughts he had had in the eloquent manner he wished to present them. Each attempt to sound unstudied or amusing came off as more stiff than the last, and he thought, his mood rapidly descending into glum melancholy, that he might soon have to return Mr. Jefferson his ware.

Better, he reasoned, to simply turn over a portion of his money than to tax himself by earning it honestly. He would never be a writer. It was simply too difficult. Why had he presumed that he could ever do such a thing? Alexander was a reader to his core, but it is well known that one may be a very great reader and yet barely have the ability to string a sentence together.

George looked up from his trunk with concern. 

 

~*~

 

With her horse Hector slowed to an easy canter, Adrienne approached the grand house of Mount Vernon from the west. This approach showed the estate in what she considered its finest attitude, and her long-dead mother, who had ridden this same path when she was a girl, would have agreed with this sentiment. The open fields gradually gave way to a gentle hill of a few hundred feet, which was such an unusual feature of geography for that landscape of flat, rolling clay, that it had given the house its name.

Hector picked his way up the path of gentle switchbacks, his hooves reverberating against the sandstone and carrying down into the low valley that surrounded the house. Her leisurely approach was a tonic after that morning’s hard ride. Adrienne left Hector in the excellent care of her stablehand. Then, pulling off her black leather gloves in a fluid, graceful motion, the mistress and steward of Mount Vernon went in through the kitchens, where she deposited a brace of rabbits, still pliable and warm, onto the marble countertop. A cup of tea remained from that morning, which she had prepared and then promptly forgotten about. She drank it now, though it was stone cold, in three hearty gulps. Wiping her mouth with the open palm of her left hand, Adrienne pulled out her tobacco pouch.

Smoking in quiet for a while, she found her thoughts turning to Gilbert and his utility, and consequently went into the pantry to see if any partially-consumed bottles of wine could be used up. This habit of hers annoyed the housekeeper, as did her proclivity for leaving half-smoked cigarettes smoldering away in ashtrays, in a way that her presence was a warning that the corner of a rug, or a carelessly strewn bit of paper, was about to catch fire.

 

~*~

 

The man whom Adrienne referred to as Gilbert was of course the same Marquis de Lafayette who had attended Alexander and Mr. Washington’s wedding several months prior. Up until now he has been a man surrounded in intrigue and mystery, and in some respects must remain so. His profession was nominally that of tutor, and we will leave the matter at that. (For some things, a young man requires guidance _a la Francaise_ , as it were.) In their bed, he stretched himself to his full length (very much like a cat would, as it so happens), and sat up on his haunches, elbows bent behind his back. Coming in, Adrienne kicked the door shut behind her and set down the wine bottle and two jam jars. She wiggled her finger into the careless knot of her tie, and loosed it until the two black tails hung down on either side of her neck.

‘Have you been riding?’ Gilbert asked, in a heavy foreign accent that the reader will surely be glad for us not to reproduce in print.

‘Of course,’ said Adrienne, in a lighter tone. Her accent was a gossamer shimmer in comparison to his. Yes, it hinted at foreign birth, but also of one’s true home regained at a young age. Then, obscure but unmistakable, the later imprint of a series of unfortunate tutors; women armed with knowledge, textbooks, and good intentions, whom she had worn down in quick succession, until at fourteen the mistress of Mount Vernon was left almost entirely to her own devices to do exactly as she pleased.

And so she did. She read all sorts of books, and ate but little, and rode hard, up to three times per day. She wore glen plaid suits and high-waisted pants that she had inherited from her grandmother, who she visited often in her seaside retirement. Adrienne’s shirttails were often untucked. Her hair was in its own constant state of disarray, as if it were trying to escape from whatever configuration she had wrangled it into. She shot pheasant, woodcock, grouse, pigeon, quail, and partridge. She thought nothing of riding for days, even weeks at a time, along the coast and up through the shires to higher elevations, where forests grew thick and cool, and their carpets of dying leaves crunched beneath Hector’s feet. On her adventures we have no time to dwell, but they were many, and manifold, and took her far from our shores. Someday, perhaps, an ambitious person might write them down. However for now, she sat on the bed and handed him one of the empty glasses, into which she poured a good measure of wine, and then she poured her own.

Adrienne stripped off her boots and, at Gilbert’s specific request, opted to forgo washing herself. As they almost always missed luncheon, the cook had not bothered to prepare anything.

 

~*~

 

Meanwhile, Alexander and George had been so engrossed in saying their farewells that they too forgotten their mealtime. This was very rude, especially since John had nobody with whom to dine or converse, and consequently felt himself quite adrift. He spent a lonely hour at table, optimistically interpreting every shuffle and squeak of the floorboards as Alexander, or Mr. Washington, or even a servant, come to see him with some trifling matter or small question. When the midday mealtime had passed without him so much as seeing another soul, he retreated to the front room and to the task of darning Angelica’s stockings as well as his own.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Gift for Alexander — The First Parting — Immediate and Overwhelming Regrets — A Public Farewell_

By the time Alexander had given up completely on writing anything pithy enough to sell, his feet were as shriveled as a pair of Agen prunes. The water his feet had been resting in was now cold enough to bring on a chill, as some elderly people say. Others, such as Mr. Washington, would call it a fortification of the mortal instrument. The instrument in question, Alexander now saw, had donned his regimental dress attire, replete with sash, ornamental cutlass, and double-frilled cuffs, and he was acutely grateful for the coldness, then.

He set aside the book whose binding he had been employing as a desk, and stood up, his legs sloshing in the cool water, and took off everything save his shirt, to preserve his modesty. Then he climbed, with wet legs, into their bed. Alexander folded his arms in front of his chest and pretended, artfully but badly, to be ignoring George.

(We will pause and note the immaturity of his behaviour, providing no excuse except to say that the twelve years since Alexander lost his mother, and the eighteen since he had set eyes on his absent father, made themselves strongly felt at that moment. Good conduct is the privilege of those who recognize a parting as merely temporary, and Alexander had little cause to think this would be such a separation.)

‘So,’ he said at last, very cross indeed. ‘You are leaving me. And I have been given no account as to when I may hope to see you again, and that is if your life does not become forfeit!’ After he had voiced this sentiment Alexander stared, quite morosely, at the coverlet, under which his legs were beginning to dry. An ache resonated through his chest, and the realization that no longer would he be able to quell this hurt by knowing his husband, who could well die in his service, if Providence ordained it, struck anew the chord of bitter melancholy.

‘Alexander,’ began George, in a tone fraught with trepidation. He was uncertain how to proceed regarding his very possible demise, and did what all sensible men must do when confronted with their own mortality: changed the topic. ‘If you will permit me, please. I have something for you.’

‘Is it papers from Field Marshall Sampson urging your immediate and honourable discharge from service?’ he asked, and George quailed at the mere suggestion. A soldier cannot relinquish his identity as easily as all that. By way of answer he turned to gather from the floor a large parcel wrapped in plain canvas, and which Alexander had assumed would be shipped off with all the rest. But here again his powers of observation left something to be desired. Even shut up with the parcel in question for several days, he had had failed to notice its importance.

George carried it gingerly in his massive hands, and set it upon Alexander’s waiting lap. Then he stepped away and said, in a tender but tentative manner, ‘Alexander, I hope — that is, I have been given to understand at least, that you are — or should I say will be? Well, it is no matter — a most steadfast writer of missives. And I wish to tell you now that which you must already know: I am but a simple soldier. I must confess my fear that you will find me a most poor correspondent, even before the censors have their way with my dispatches. But for all my faults, I earnestly wish that this will not dissuade you from writing me — from time to time — if you may spare a moment for the man you have married.’ He delivered all these words in a great rush, for the great man was nervous, as anybody might be when they are about to present somebody they love with a gift for the very first time.

Alexander flinched preemptively when the parcel was laid atop his legs, but it turned out to be lighter than he had expected. He gave his husband a curious look, brief but penetrating, before his curiousity got the better of him, and then set to untying the cord that bound the canvas fast. This fell away in his lap to reveal yet another layer of wrapping. Pale tissue paper enfolded the shape that was, upon closer inspection, a box. It lay in his lap, and he stared at it, for several reasons. First, though he had been given sweets and money at Christmas, and usually a book of self improvement (which was, it goes without saying, read chiefly for amusement) and a new suit from Mulligan’s sharp needle, this was the first present that Alexander could recollect being given in the whole of his adult life. Second, his heart was overflowing with feelings he had scarce precedent to understand, and while before he had chosen to conceal them with indifferent anger, now he thought he might well weep at the goodness of such a man. Thirdly, he felt known in such a way that, even in knowing him, George had been unable to do; a well-chosen gift, you see, is a private signal between the one who offers and the one who takes, and a recognition, however implicit, of their character.

What did the writing desk say about Alexander, that Mr. Washington could discern? Like him, it was compact, and sturdy. Yet for all that, craftship could be evidenced in the plain pine base, the joints firmly fixed to one another. The inlay was rosewood, prized and fine from Bahia. In a thing so simple as the wood, we may discern a subtle nod to Alexander’s West Indian origin; an acknowledgement of his perennial status as an outsider. However, the gift’s receiver failed to notice the way the pattern which chased the border mimicked his favourite waistcoat, or the inlay with his initials, the correct ones ( ** _AH_** , painted with curlicues so great in quantity that the original forms were difficult to discern) so wholly entranced was he with the thing at all.

The inside was lined with a rich green velvet. The places that were not covered with fabric were painted to match it. A small drawer lifted out, in which a man could store all the quills, ink, sand, stamps, and sealing wax he needed. These were, as a matter of fact, thoughtfully set in their rightful places, all shiny and new. On the right-hand side, a small key protruded, indicating that at least one drawer could be locked.

Alexander was speechless at being presented with such a gift. His fingers traced the carved edges of the sides, flitted delicately over the fine inlay. As small symphony swelled in his heart, to which he wished to give voice but his words were — _alas!_ — unfit to the task. And now George was gathering himself up, and wishing Alexander all the best, and urging him, if he would be so kind, please, to remember to write, and to judge his own letters gently, if his heart inclined thusly, for they were sure to disappoint.

He squeezed Alexander’s shoulder, and planted a sweet, chaste kiss upon his brow, and then quickly, before either man could cry, was gone from the room.

Alexander was speechless for several long minutes. His tongue moved thickly in his mouth. ‘Wait,’ he griped to himself, and to the desk in his lap. ‘No! George, George! George, wait!’

 

~*~

 

He ran out of the house. He tore down the street after George, who was astride Nelson, and so moving at a rapid clip; as fast as a horse might without bodily harm to others, in a crowded city. They were headed southeast, to the wharf, and their awaiting barge.

Alexander stood on tiptoe, and bounced on the balls of his feet. To the left and to the right he looked for George, frantic at the thought that he had missed his chance at a proper goodbye. Not even a farewell kiss to see him through the lonely nights ahead! He spotted a tall man walking, but that was not George, and he saw a fat lady riding a sturdy horse, but, no, that was not him either. He grew increasingly frantic, and was about to chance in one direction or the other, hoping beyond hope that it would be the correct way. And then! A glimpse of a three-cornered hat, a flash of shoulder. Nelson’s gray tail swished between black-clad women and girls and Alexander ran after the horse which frightened him so.  
‘Pardon!’ he gasped, as pushed aside a washerman, whose laundry tipped out onto the dirty street, and who cursed after him. A lady, late for an appointment with her hairdresser, was very nearly elowed in the ribs. She was about to call out after him with a reprimand to watch his step — and then she took stock of his appearance: — clad only in a shirt and with his breeches barely fastened, his hair down, no stockings, barefoot, barenecked — she thought he must be in the throes of some delirium, and that somebody (a responsible citizen, but not her, she would miss her booking) should notify the proper authorities.

‘George!’ shouted Alexander over the milling throng. ‘George! Oh, blast!’ he stamped his foot, then bleated out, ‘Mr. Washington! General Washington! Sir!’

Nelson, bless him, heard the call before his rider did. His ears pricked up at the unfamiliar voice with a cadence that compelled him to listen. With a whicker, he informed the man astride his back that someone had wish to speak with him. George pulled up the reins, even though in actuality the horse had already made the decision to stop moving, and then kicked his left heel against Nelson’s flank until they were turned one hundred and eighty degrees in the direction of the voice emanating from behind the crowd.

‘George, wait!’ cried Alexander, and the people parted. This was in great account owing to his disheveled appearance, which, to their watchful eyes, was as good as being naked. (In church, even!) For him it mattered not. The people murmured their shock and soft amazement as this rumpled man shouldered his way through. There were comments that he was quite attractive — a few ladies speculated on the nature of the relationship between the man on foot and the one atop the majestic white horse with its distinguished blaze of gray — others wondered aloud that his legs were uncovered — one older lady in particular mulled over a suitable way to describe his hair, which was a sleek black mess around his face, and found she could not without recourse to cliche — she turned back to the scene unfolding in the middle of the street — with the autumn sun slanting to the west and into George’s eyes — so that the the face of the man striding towards him was cast in darkness by the corona — but he would know him from five hundred paces in the dark.

‘Alexander!’ he said to himself, with wonderment. A smile, imperceptible, tugged a corner of his lip. He remained on his horse as Alexander approached. George noted the state of undress; he took into account the streetful of onlookers, who had all gathered round to see what the half-naked man with the wild hair would do next; he remembered the immanent departure of his ship; he desperately wished to remain planted precisely where he was.

‘George,’ said Alexander, and put his hands on his hips in a manner reminiscent of a merchant’s husband, selling wares or fish down by the docks. He bit his lower lip. A charming gesture, this, and the ladies all looked on approvingly, and the husbands gasped and covered their eyes (though they looked as well, through splayed fingers), as George leaned down, and with one broad arm swept Alexander up off his feet and into a kiss. His long black cloak fell from its artful arrangement over his shoulder, and concealed most of Alexander from view, and recognizing this, Alexander grapped the edge and pulled it over their heads.

There are kisses of passion, love, romance, jealousy, even anger. There are, very occasionally, pure kisses, and this; this was such a kiss.

‘I will miss you,’ Alexander said, when they broke apart for air. George squeezed around his waist and kissed him again. Alexander was once more lifted from the ground. The cloak swished with a sound like the wind in the sycamore trees. 

‘And I you,’ sighed George, and pressed his plaintive forehead to Alexander's own. Declarations of love, which would normally be appropriate on such an occasion, went unsaid. But they were felt in every touch, every brush of hands on skin, entwined mouths, and gasps of air, hated but necessary. Then George spoke against Alexander's lips and said, 'The hour grows late, my love.' Alexander nodded, and allowed himself to be released. His eyes were damp. As he slid down to the ground, the pavement cut into his bare feet. 

George backed Nelson away, and the man and horse, as one, turned east. Alexander, by now aware that he had gathered quite the excited crowd, walked away with as much dignity as he could muster. 


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In the Meanwhile — A Journey by Carriage — Alexander's Writing — The Arrival at Mount Vernon_

The pages of the calendar peeled away like leaves. If we may measure time in output, then these months were prodigious indeed. Alexander wrote more than he ever thought possible. Reviews for Mr. Jefferson were completed with great haste at the last possible moment. These were in turn published with the vague attribution ‘Thoughts of a Gentleman’ and received only moderate circulation but wide notoriety. Mr. Washington was sent letters which by now numbered in the dozens, each more expansive than the last. This was just as well, for the censor’s markings obscured nearly two-thirds of each one — in case it were intercepted, at any point in its journey, by the enemy. He pressed the desk into use in the drawing room at Lady Catherine’s. He wrote in bed, and over meals, and during every carriage ride, even in the bath, when he dared. Alexander had always done his best to live dangerously.

As Alexander had no conveyance of his own he was forced to share the Churches’ carriage. However the journey had been delayed several times, and it was indeed past Bonfire Night when they at last set out for Suffolk. It was not until John had done his husbandly duty to the satisfaction of both mothers and several specialists in Harley Street that he was dismissed to set up a home of his own. Now he was to begin housekeeping, and establish the nursery, and to arrange all the thousand little details a husband must take care of in order to make his wife’s home her castle.

During the journey, John was tiresomely talkative. He remarked, for what had to be the tenth time, on the evenness of the terrain. Then he put to Alexander that he surely saw how it differed from the West Country. Again he raised the topic of Suffolk weather. It was but fourteen miles between Mount Vernon and River Grove. Surely they would see one another very often! But perhaps it would be better if Alexander did not write quite so much, for it was so very taxing to one’s constitution. When combined with the jolt and clop of the carriage, it might very well send a man into a swoon.

‘Is that a letter to your husband?’ asked John, peering over with the kind of curiosity that we have until recently attributed solely to Alexander. Mr. Washington’s acquaintance and marriage had changed that man, on the whole, for the better. The gift of the writing desk had been bestowed at a most fortuitous time, as he was devouring novels, and subsequently spitting out his thoughts regarding them, at an unprecedented rate. The effect on Alexander’s mind, which had always been quick, was striking. Even in this scarce amount of time he had become bolder, sharper. We shall see in time, what an exquisite weapon, how deadly and incisive in words as well as deeds, the man was to become.

‘Yes,’ lied Alexander, a bit curtly, and moved to shield it with his hand.

Beneath the letters, which were the only writing a man might openly engage in, Alexander’s notes, reviews, reports, and observations were nestled securely in the locked drawer. Very often he would touch the key, secreted away in his pocket, to reassure himself that it was still there and his secrets, such as they were, tucked safe away. Since we saw him last, Alexander had also found a sympathetic conspirator in an unlikely place. Angelica, of all people, had taken to saving yesterday’s newspapers for him, and — though reports from the war were scarce — the financial pages, stock reportings, trade news were all plenty forthcoming. She had even been so generous with her time, her sex, and the freedom that wearing a skirt afforded her, to make transactions on Alexander’s behalf. These were small amounts of capital, for he had little in the way of liquidity, but fortified wine, pork bellies, and pig iron were all proving sound investments, even with the loss of several merchant ships to the French during the course of the war.

‘I do not see how you are able to write with the constant motion!’ said John, amazed, as always, at Alexander’s variable minor talents.

‘I find it no trouble,’ Alexander answered honestly. ‘The motion does not affect me, thank Providence.’

‘You are lucky then,’ said John, with a good natured smile. ‘Unlike poor Lady Catherine, who cannot bear to travel by carriage,’ he remarked to his companions. ‘I have it on good authority from my dear wife that the windows must be open, and the pace exceedingly slow, or else she will fall ill.’

‘It is rude to speak so ill of your mother-in-law,’ said Richard with a gentle rebuke as he lowered his knitting needles into his lap. 

‘Oh, Father!’ cried John. 'I would never do such a thing, you know that!' Here he looked to Alexander for support which, as the latter was engrossed in writing, was not forthcoming. His eyes instead remained fixed on the flow of words before him. During the course of their journey he had found that he could quite easily ignore the incessant chatter of his seatmate. To his great surprise, in fact, he had found John’s conversation to be exactly what he needed to have in order to write. A quiet room with a few guttering candles had sounded divine, on the surface of it, but instead he had found that the stillness had been a sort of madness. In John was found the most perfect diversion of a surface sort and they sat together companionably often, the one hard at work, the other with his needlework.

‘Have you heard from the housekeeper’ Mrs. Church asked Alexander, after some time. He shook his head in dismay.

‘I am saddened to report that I have not,’ he said, with a sigh. 'I have written several times but he has not bothered to reply. But I am sure I am expected, even if we are a full day late.' As they were nearing their final destination, he read over the letter before him once more, then scattered a handful of dry sand across the wet black ink. The carriage went over a large rock at precisely that moment, and a fair smattering of sand graced Alexander’s lap. He grimaced, and placed the finished letter in the top tray. He would seal and address it later, and then, once he had settled in, see what other volumes Mr. Jefferson had sent along. Reading romances had given him a number of unusual ideas, and for a brief flash he wondered (not for the first time, if it be known) if perhaps Mount Vernon might have a history of haunting. John would certainly find such a prospect exciting, and might wish to summon a spirit.

A further hour’s travel found them turning into the drive of Mount Vernon. Mr. Church peered up at the imposing facade. His wife followed suit. They exchanged a glance. John looked queasy. 

They traversed a long drive and a small land bridge that crossed the moat which was no longer needed. They passed a walled garden and a yew walk and well-maintained topiary. It was so quiet that the sounds of crunching gravel seemed as loud as gunshot. The carriage came to a halt and they all, as a one, moved to peer through the windows at the house. The facade gleamed in cold, gray manner, with the last of November’s weak afternoon sun. Everybody was very still. A rustle came from a nearby bit of topiary and startled them all, but it was merely a dove. The house stood, imposing and aloof. The wind blew, gustily. A bit of dust rose up from the path and settled with a whirl. Nobody had so much as peeked through a window, or given Alexander reception.

‘Perhaps they have gone into town,’ Alexander reassured everybody, with a certainty in tone only. It was as much for himself as for their benefit. In truth he had hope the business with the letters was merely a product of the disruption of the post, owing to the demands on supply lines, and he fully expected to be greeted by — if not the lady of the house, then a manservant at the very least. John, in particular, squinted up at the cold stone face with concern. ‘The housekeeper has been informed of my arrival for some time, and my trunks have already arrived. I am certain that I will find a bedchamber set up for me, and perhaps,’ and here his stomach rumbled as if given a stage direction, ‘something to eat. It has been a long journey, though, with such fine company in which to pass it, hardly an arduous one. I will write, dear John, and call upon you when we find a time that may be mutually agreeable, once I am settled here.’

‘Very well,’ said John, a bit reluctantly. ‘And perhaps, Mama, I might be given the carriage to visit Alexander as well?’

Mrs. Church indicated with a nod that this plan of action would be acceptable to her. Even a woman so happy to be in society as she hardly wishes to converse at length when she has been travelling for a week. Her own introductions could wait for another day. It would be quite convenient, not to mention a positive mark upon her character, to be able to count the residents of Mount Vernon among her acquaintance! And Alexander, for all his shortcomings, had proven himself a most charming companion for her son. In fact, John spoke of little else. It was all ‘Alexander this’ and ‘Alexander that’ and ‘No, Mamma, Alexander thinks that’ and then each of Alexander’s opinions was offered as if it were Gospel truth.

‘Don’t forget to write, Alexander!’ John chimed in with concern, and very nearly burst into tears at their separation. He would miss Alexander more, it must be said, than he did his own wife. 

Alexander flashed his lopsided smile at his brother-in-law. ‘You have my word, dear John. We will not be parted for long. Mrs. Church,’ he dipped his head in deference, finding again the formality of parting that is relinquished when one is in transit. ‘Mr. Church. Mr. Schuyler.’

The carriage cut a wide semicircle across the gravel drive and the wheels rattled as it receded from view. Alexander, with his cases in one hand and the writing desk clutched in the other, began to climb the stone stairs to the main entryway. He came to the door and looked behind him. They were well and truly gone, and now, it seemed, he was alone at last. He gathered up all his courage, and knocked.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Lonesome Arrival — The Great Hall — Alexander Explores the House — And to Bed_

Alexander quite rightly expected some reception to be in store for him when he arrived at Mount Vernon. A manor house of that size and legacy requires a minimum of four staff (a gardener, a gamekeeper, a housekeeper, and a cook) to keep it in good stead, but when Alexander rapped the great brass knocker against the weathered wooden door, not so much as a single pair of footsteps came to greet him there. He set his things down gingerly upon the stoop, then traipsed down the three worn stone steps and back to the front drive. Looking about produced no more information than the knocking had done, and at the last Alexander was forced to concede that perhaps his arrival was not as foregone a conclusion as he would have liked. The griffin filial perched above the doorway seemed to silently concur with this sentiment.

An investigation around the back proved fruitless; Alexander peered in all the windows which were at the eye level of a much taller person and was forced onto tiptoes more than once. Would that he had Peggy there to clamber up his shoulders and tell him what she saw, with Eliza clucking cautiously from a safe distance. Would that he had Angelica, or Lady Catherine, even, to stride into the house and demand a positive reception. His head barely cleared the bottom window ledge; he scowled and turned, but there was nobody there to hear a retort about the situation. He was, for the first time, truly alone. A bit of company, even a disliked companion would surely be preferable to this utter solitude. Many years ago, Alexander had to fend for himself, but he was very unaccustomed to it nowadays. He had been well spoiled, and grown soft.

Without much success, he attempted to pull himself up with a kind of hopping motion. His hands failed to find purchase, however, and he slid to the ground. Dirt from the ground where he now sprawled joined the dust from the masonry on his frock coat, resulting a very disheveled appearance. It was just as well, he decided, that nobody was there to espy him in such a state. Alexander was eyeing the climbing roses, all in their suspended state of animation until the spring, that crept up the back of the house and snaked alongside the windows, and wondering if the birch tree whose branches leaned temptingly towards the upstairs might support him, when he heard a faraway noise as if a gun were sounding its report..

Not being well acquainted with guns or their discharge, Alexander fell to the stones and clapped frightened hands above his head to muffle the horrible sound. Another shot rang out in the cold stillness, and, lifting his head with ginger trepidation, Alexander resolved to try the door again. He scurried to the porch filled with newfound resolve. The griffin gawped at him; this time it seemed to be almost smirking at his predicament. However, this time the door swung inwards with a heavy creak, which came as something of a surprise. He could not recall, truly, if he had tried the door the first time in his haste and fright. In truth he had merely rapped on the prior occasion; the door had been left off the latch for him.

That was, sad to say, as far as the preparations had gone. Entering into the small alcove and setting down his things, Alexander was greeted with a very dismal sight indeed, once his eyes had adjusted to the dim light. Nary a candle had been lit. The hearth did not blaze merrily, as one would have hoped for on a cold November’s afternoon. Indeed it was bare of logs yet brimming with ashes that spilled onto the stones. A few sticks had been stacked haphazardly beside it, but they were green and mostly unseasoned, even to Alexander’s untrained eyes, as if someone had made a mediocre effort to gather kindling but had stopped after the very first pass.

Whereupon he set down his case and writing box, a swirling mass of dust was coughed up from the floor. This found its way into Alexander’s lungs, and caused him quite a fit. After a moment he returned to himself and saw that he was standing in the midst of a great hall beneath a vaulted stone doorway. The walls had been plastered and whitewashed, and were rapidly cooling as the sun disappeared below the horizon. White sheets were draped carelessly over the furniture, causing them to appear as lumpen shapes under which anything might lurk. A peek under one revealed a fine carved chair, but this sent up yet another quantity of dust, and so Alexander here resolved to keep his hands to himself.

Besides the white walls, and the empty fireplace, and the ghostly draperies, the only items which were displayed in the great hall were a pair of exquisite Antwerp tapestries depicting the hunt, their brilliant silk threads faded with age, and the heads of a dozen great stags which stared forlornly into the distance. Far from reassuring Alexander, the stag’s heads seemed merely to be judging him, their glass eyes aloof and disinterested, their coats grayed with neglect.

Upon further entry into the house, Alexander found he was indeed quite alone. The kitchen’s ovens were cold as stone, and scarce but a few loaves of hardening bread could be found in the stores, along with a few pitiful-looking onions, their braided tops withered. At this precise moment, his stomach growled with anger, a reminder that he had taken no food since their stop at a tavern by the roadside many hours ago. He did not even see a kettle or a way in which to make tea. Forlornly, he thought of Mulligan’s cookery, and the hearty repasts which had always greeted guests and visitors to South End, for Mulligan was the sort of man who began mixing up a batch of scones the moment he heard footsteps or horse hooves approaching, and so when guests arrived they would have to wait but twenty minutes for a plate, with sweet-churned butter, and jam from the pantry, and tea so strong it would knock the sleep from your eyes.

His stomach growled again, more angrily this time. He broke off a piece from the loaf’s hardened heel and went in search of the house’s other inhabitants.

In neither bedroom, nor solar — office — privy — stairwell — study — did he find them. Alexander did manage to locate the room in which his trunk had been stashed, though it was in the same state of neglect as the rest of the house, save for the mistress' bedroom. The husband’s chambers similarly appeared in disuse. The study was dusted, at least, and an open accounts book rested on the sturdy oaken table which bore the marks of recent additions. The ink was bright and clear upon the page. Finally the stables, which were to be found out the back entryway, past the kitchens, were well kept-up. Beyond that lay the gunroom, the door of which was, quite naturally, locked up tight against intruders. It, too, was in fine nick, as were all the firelocks stored therein. Adrienne had few concerns in her life, but a well-polished gun, a fast horse, and a sharp blade would solve the bulk of them.

Having wandered enough to satisfy his curiosity, Alexander went into the room where his trunk sat. From what he knew of hospitality, and it was, by experience, very little, then a man might expect to return to his bedroom and find his trunk wide open and his things put away. Here he found neither, merely fine old furniture covered in white sheets. Pulling on the edge of one revealed a dresser of finest maple, where he began to store his things. He placed stockings rolled up tight in the bottom, fitted drawers, and shirts, whose fronts had been neatly pressed by Mulligan so many months ago. Breeches and trousers followed these. His coats he hung in the wardrobe, which smelt of stale mothballs, as if they had been placed there some time after the last war and then gradually forgotten. 

Once again, his stomach rumbled. From outside, a noise came like the sharp crack of a whip against the flagstones. Having only an empty basin and no water with which to wash, Alexander contented himself with brushing his hair for a hundred strokes, as Eliza used to do for him. Then he peeled off his clothes, dusty from travel and his exertions around the property, and climbed under the bedclothes, which were cold, and slightly clammy, and smelt of damp. 

Even in such strange surroundings, he was tired from his journey, and fell asleep very quickly. In the course of the night he did wake, upon several occasions, to a noise that sounded very much like the low, dark howl of a wolf as it bayed at the silver moon. 


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Bed the Morning After — Upsetting News from the Front — Around the House — The First Resident_

Alexander awoke to a howling wind, which lashed against the stone masonry as if it were a ship pushed out to sea. The sound startled him at first, until he remembered that Mount Vernon derived its name from its position on what, in the north or west, might pass laughably for a hillock, but in the flat stretch known as Suffolk elevated it above all which surrounded the house. Hence the wind would whip, and blow, with neither treebreak nor hedgerow to impede it.

Listening to the sound, he snuggled himself down under the musty bedclothes, at last warmed from his body heat, and pondered his situation. As we have come this far with Alexander, it may behoove the reader to remember that while he was possessed of independence in mind as well as spirit, he had never been truly on his own since he was small. Even then he had the faint protection of a weak mother in a distant land where women’s lot is unjustly subsumed to men’s. However, now is not the time for political digressions, at least not until they have particular bearing on our narrative, which is to say, on Alexander’s own life. But more on that anon. 

For the first time, and hardly to be the last occasion for its occurrence, he thought how much pleasanter it was, on the whole, to share a bed with somebody else, particularly if that person had powerful arms, and radiated strength, and protection, and did not seem to mind in the least if their bedmate stole all the covers or radiated heat like a furnace. But if he permitted his thoughts to drift to the absent General, then he would simply lie abed all day, fretting, and occupied in base entertainments.

Thus with reluctance he pushed aside the image of George’s wide and capable hands, and all the ways in which these hands had made his nights, mornings, and even some afternoons as novel as a journey to some far-flung place, and took stock of his situation. Suffolk. November. Fairly lacking in fortune, but with an ability to draw on his and George’s accounts, at least, if he could manage to locate a bank, or a merchant who might stand him credit in the meanwhile. Utterly alone, at least for the foreseeable future. Society could be found to the north, but as he was lacking in transport, and had yet to see anywhere he might mail a letter or offer an invitation, that could pose potential difficulties. And here we might ourselves remark: how much has changed for poor Alexander! A year ago he would have greeted the prospect with the utmost cheer; how fine, how utterly splendid, to have all the time in the world in which to read, and write, and otherwise while away the hours in peace and solitude. But now that he was faced with the prospect it seemed much less appealing. Strange indeed!

He tossed upon the bed, hair spilled out behind him enchantingly on the pillow. It really was a shame for him to be so very alone, when he looked quite so desirable. A portrait would hardly have done him justice. Like a compass to due north, his thoughts turned to George once more. How had he fared during the sea voyage? Were his companions grateful for his return? Was he well, in his encampment? Did he pine for Alexander? Did he find himself equally lonely once night fell, or — and here he flushed, dizzily, to remember that George was surrounded by heaps of men, and would of course have comrades and company. He would hardly have a moment to himself!

These men, strong of shoulder and noble of brow, would take meals together three times daily, and brush shoulders during their training exercises, which, he realized with acute clarity, they would be performing in their usual state of veritable nakedness. The horror! Alexander sat bolt upright and felt beneath his pillow for George’s letters, which he had placed there for safekeeping, and in the hope that they might wend their way into his dreams merely by proximity. Contagion is an old sort of magic, but a powerful one. To return to the letters: these were few in number, totaling only five. They contained approximately as much detail as the sort of advertisement that is taken out by a spendthrift lady in the most expensive newspaper, who justifies the steep cost per word as a rationale for narrative economy. In other words, they were brief. And yet they contained what now seemed to Alexander to be veritable effluvia regarding George’s brothers-in-arms.

Here were penned names in George's narrow copperplate— _Clinton, Gates, Greene, Collins, Arnold, Knox_ — and any one man among them, Alexander thought, as he pawed angrily through the pages, might offer warmth and solace to George, in a way he could not at such a distance. Spartan friendship, Athenian love. It could not be! And yet, indeed it could! He turned the letters over again in his lap and then scanned the most recent one, whose contents he had not yet been able to memorize, as with the others, and read it through again, hungrily.

 

_11 October 18--_

_My dearest Alexander,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and in good health for the journey ahead. It is early for frost, but you may encounter some along the way. Also bridges which have frozen over in the cold. I entreat you to urge Mrs. Church to choose safety over expediency. As I have always known her to be a fairly judicious woman, I do not think she will require much convincing in this regard. You will be comfortable in their carriage, which has been newly refitted inside and out. But I am sure you know this already from your conversations with the family._

_It pleases me to hear you speak so warmly of John, who will like to benefit from your proximity. I beg you not to overburden him with too many novel ideas at present. It would be prudent, unless you are quite among friends, to limit the amount of your conversation on this subject until the war is done. There are ripples enough without casting further stones._

_Fear not, dearest Alexander, for I will be there by your side, after we have — {whereupon had been crossed out, with the censor’s thick strokes, several lines alluding to the nefarious weasel who, entirely lacking the divine right belonging to queens, had dared to crown himself Emperor. And then here, Alexander’s eyes narrowed very jealously at the page, as he read the following sentences} — the men in my company are very good, though there are a few green ones among the known quantities. I am ever grateful for the support of Commander Charles Lee, who I have mentioned previously in passing. He is a good man, and much like yourself, in that he has hardly known his family. Indeed, though he is in almost every particular your opposite, he reminds me of you, dear Alexander._

_We were stationed together before my remove to Britain this last spring, though we had not the fortune of long acquaintance. Now, I am happy to report, he has become a good friend as well as my second in command. When all is done we are able, on occasion, to snatch a glass of brandy by the campfire and discuss tactics to be brought before Field Marshall Sampson. We are quite cozy even when the wind blows, using our horses to give us shelter. Nelson is quite happy to be back in the saddle, as I am sure you can imagine._

_But I have perhaps dwelt too long on my own situation, and you will find it unspeakably dull. For you there is much to anticipate at Mount Vernon. You will find Ms. Noailles in residence, but may not see her often. She is too much like her mother, I think, to have much patience for polite society. I beg you to tread lightly in this matter._

_With love and affection, I remain_  
_Your most Humble and Obedient Servant, &tc._  
_General George Washington_

Alexander laid the letter down upon his lap. Then he picked it up, and read it again with hot cheeks. This would not do at all. He would have to inquire about what manner of man this Lee was. George had mentioned him in previous letters, he now saw, as he flipped through those as well, and praised his strength, and resilience, and overall temerity, though of course he had chosen much plainer words in which to say so. 

For a time, he sulked. It was quite natural of him to feel this way, for he had never been given over to jealousy before, save for the feelings he harboured for John Laurens, in what seemed so long ago. This was a novel sensation, and one he disliked intensely. But at last he resolved that however warm the bed, and however sullen he might have felt, he would get nowhere by waiting around for things to improve on their own. A moment more beneath the covers, and then he kicked his feet out to the side and placed them on the scratchy woolen rug.

Perhaps, he decided as he stood and stretched, slender arms raised above his head as he yawned, perhaps Lee was very ugly, which was why George spoke so highly of him. Yes, unspeakably so, with a long scar bisecting his cheek and a milky eye clouded over with cataracts. And stringy hair, and a thin reedy speaking voice, and with a backside flat and wide rather than round and plump.

Having thus satisfied himself that Charles Lee was roughly on par, physically speaking, with a cross between a hermit and a cave troll, and would pose no temptation to George under any circumstances, Alexander stood before his wardrobe and pondered the appropriate degree to which he should observe formality here, in a place which seemed entirely absent of people. He could swan downstairs in his dressing gown, as Mr. Schuyler used to at South End, and not a soul would be the wiser. For a moment he seriously considered it. In the end, he was grateful that he had not chosen to forgo neckcloth, waistcoat, or jacket, for after he had shut his door — and descended the stairs — and gnawed the bread which yesterday was stale and today was even worse — and fixed himself a pot of something that could only generously be described as tea — and looked at the stags heads in the great room and the portraits in the halls — and walked through every unlocked room and opened every unlocked drawer — and examined the courtyard, with its creeping vines and dead roses in need of pruning — the gazebo, past the yew arbor that could have stood to be shaped and trimmed, so difficult was it to pass through what had once been a graceful passageway — and was on the verge of stepping into the adjoining chapel when he encountered, nearly a full day after his arrival, another living soul.

This was the gardener, who was coming round the corner with a bucket filled with kindling. A man known only as Henry, who, for the record, served as man-of-all-work, washerman, cook, housekeeper, blacksmith, and gamekeeper. He had a beard shot through with gray, and wore a brightly patterned cloth tied jauntily round his neck, and a hat with a curious lace that threaded below his chin. For all the varied questions Alexander put to him, and these were many, he answered only with the minimum of words.

“Is there a shop?” inquired Alexander, and the man’s head twitched in assent. “A grocer’s, I mean, or a dry goods establishment. Surely Mademoiselle de Noialles eats, does she not?”

The man gave him a blank look. There was intelligence behind his brow, which seemed smooth for his age, but he seemed disinclined to answer. Aaron Burr had been that same sort of man, Alexander thought with impatience, always withholding when a straightforward response would have served an identical purpose. He felt his frustration bubble up like a hot spring in wintertime. But then, with a pang he recalled George, and the letter from the morning, and checked his irritation. It would hardly do to have the servants set against him from the outset, he decided, and so tried again with a more even tone. “I trust that you will be able to procure provisions for me, if I am able to supply you with money? In truth we should be able to draw on General Washington’s accounts, I think. Does he not run credit at the village shop? In any case, whatever the payments to be made, something should be done. I am not much of a cook, but I suppose that I can try and learn. Unless that is something you would do? No?”

For dinner he managed to scavenge half a pork pie and a mealy apple, which had been left out on the countertop, presumably for him, or as a remainder from someone else's supper. In either case, he fell upon it greedily, and burped into his fist when he had finished. 

Returning to the chamber he had taken for his own, he found that he was far too alert for sleep. In any case, he had fallen slightly behind on his work for Mr. Jefferson during the journey, as it was difficult to conceal from his traveling companions, and so now he unlatched his desk and drew out the first drafts of the most recent reviews, and scanned these over. In all the writing was strong, forceful, if still amateurish in its style and manner of condemnation. Alexander was clever, you see, but he had yet to learn wit. It is a more rarefied skill, and more frequently used to compose _bon mots_ regarding the sweep of a lady’s cheek or to make some joke for her amusement. Thus his reviews offered little besides clever rancor, that which would soon evaporate and be forgotten, to be tossed aside and serve as fish and chip wrappers for the morrow.

_It has been said with great sarcasm by many a snarling intellectual that men have no character at all. However, this preposterous sentiment can be given occasion for truth when applied to their production. By this I mean: Novels. The one laid before us now is evidently written by a gentleman, and is so flimsy in its construction that I scarce know how to begin to dismantle it. The story is improbable but blissfully, short —_

The review went on in this vein for several more paragraphs. When that was finished Alexander penned a letter to Eliza, which spectacularly failed to mention General Washington at all. He chose to keep his concerns private, and instead wrote, for his own drawer, a very dreadful poem in iambic verse about a very winsome young man watching the sea, waiting for his ship’s captain to return, and then he read over the poem, and blushed very heartily at the wording he had chosen. Then he climbed into bed, and touched the letters beneath his pillow, his hand resting there as he drifted off to sleep, the shutters clattering against the windowpanes with a harsh rattle. 

The next day, when he had completed his ablutions and other personal endeavours, he traipsed downstairs with a growling hunger in his belly. Henry had provided. There was a large cheese wheel in the larder, its surface washed with a blueish sheen of mold, and a brace of Cox’s Pippin apples, and two round country loaves, their crusty surfaces spangled with flour. There was a tin containing good strong black tea, and a dish with brown lumps of sugar, their surface slightly yielding, the taste almost woodsy. In the drawers Alexander found silver, its once bright surface tarnished over with rusty film. The only knife he was able to locate, after some rummaging that unearthed two matchbooks, a length of string, an ink blotter, completely dried up, a broken pair of opera glasses, a miniature porcelain cup, and an old deck of cards, was a hooked hunting knife sorely in need of a polish, its shine mottled with the faint memory of animal blood. 

He stared at it with trepidation, but in the end his hunger won out. He shrugged, and cut into the loaf. 


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Inner Workings of Houses — After the Arrival — Household Comforts — The Second Inhabitant_

A house is a funny thing. It may be small, as was South End, with its continual shortage of space. It may be little more than a place to rest one’s head, as was the Schuyler lodging in town, situated in the thick of it, with the noise and bustle of city life hemming it in on all sides. And yet though they are but rock and plaster, timber and stone, they have memories, do they not? Echoes from the nursery — first steps — childhood games — illnesses and coughs and croups — the lessons of the schoolroom, shaky attempts at printed letters and chalk numbers on a bit of slate — birthdays, and Christmases, and christenings — quarrels, and first kisses, engagements, and balls, dances, and tears, and births and deaths and all the rest. Everywhere, everywhere humming with the quiet susurration of the past.

Mount Vernon had a long memory, standing, as she had, since the defeat at Agincourt, when wolves roamed freely about the land. Her current mistress had come from France — by way of the Pyrenees and the plains of Castille and had such adventures that they would demand a novel all their own; so better, perhaps, to avoid that lady’s history entirely — after a long interval of peace, to claim her inheritance. In truth she disliked it. Not Suffolk per se, but being penned in for such a long time. But with a war on, and the land of her birth under siege, and the seas unsafe, and invasion immanent on far-flung borders, it made sense to stay put. If not for safety then for the tenants’ sake.

The man she loved but felt no inclination to marry felt similarly about that institution. When they were apart, so they each lived their lives happily and to the fullest, and when they were housed under the same roof they did essentially the same thing, though they might bed, or ride out together. Had either partner wished it, it would have made for an extremely satisfactory marriage.

Alexander rubbed the sleep from his eyes the following morning, and once he had roused himself, traipsed downstairs in his dressing gown. To put on proper clothes seemed a pointed waste of time. The door to the mistress’ chambers remained tightly locked against incursions from prying eyes. Henry’s presence was indicated only by the regular appearance of fresh water, food, and firewood. If he were to be found at all, then he might be slowly turning a large pile of compost, whistling through the gap in his front teeth. On occasion he visited the gun room, or mucked out the stables as much as his back permitted. At all other times he was to be found in his own small lodge, dozing upright in a hard-backed chair with a whiskey glass gripped, precariously, by one wrinkled hand in its gray fingerless glove.

Another day passed in solitude. At night the cold stones creaked and groaned as the house settled. In the kitchen, Alexander fed the fire from a basket of twigs. When the it blazed hot and merry he set the kettle atop the stove, then cut thick slices from the new loaf with the large flaying knife, which was a task far beneath the power inherent in such a blade. Or it would have been, had the knife been honed to a thin sharp edge rather than left to dull in a drawer.

He breakfasted happily enough then washed his dishes in the basin and sluiced out the water into the courtyard. As the drawers had been causing him agitation, being overflowing and difficult to shut, he emptied them of all but the necessary utensils, and put the rest away in a high cupboard dangerously stuffed with oilcloth. It was a minor gesture, but it indicated a kind of ownership all the same. Later he fetched more water and heated it in a great pot atop the stove, which sloshed all down his front as he struggled to carry it up the stairs.

The day passed. Night closed in. He slept. Morning came. Alexander washed, dressed, ate, and wrote on his traveling desk in his chambers. Though the glass was streaked, the sills were less dusty than he had supposed. One would hesitate to call it cheerful, but once the heavy velvet curtains were tied back with their sashes, a windowful of watery gray light streamed in through to dissipate the pallor. His pen scratched constantly, sharpened several times during the morning. His stack of letters grew precariously tall. That afternoon, after his dinner and a hurried walk around the perimeter, he placed them in the dining room on the sideboard, where they remained untouched.

By the fifth day, Alexander had taken to not even tying his dressing gown up at all, so comfortable was he by himself. His nightshirt was cut from a thin and revealing cambric that left little to the imagination, but he had quite ceased to be concerned with propriety. He had decided to behave as if Mount Vernon were truly his own, which, in a certain manner of speaking, it was. Mr. Schuyler had been a poor role model in this respect; in the absence of his wife, most days, he would spectacularly fail to do so much as step into his trousers.

Really, he reasoned as he made his way down, fabric trailing behind him like the tail of a blue and white striped bird, what harm was it to prepare tea in one’s own kitchen without neckcloth or stockings? Why, he might even introduce George to the idea, when he returned from his sojourn abroad. After all, his husband seemed to enjoy being without clothing almost as much as Alexander enjoyed divesting him of it. Yet here once more he felt the pang of jealousy, the painful reminder that even at this very moment his husband might be, for all intents and purposes, cavorting, undone, with any of his ensigns. Military men exhibit a casual sort of nakedness, when not dressed for the field, particularly when they take exercise, even if their regimens are overseen by tall ladies in red coats with high, firm haunches, Alexander was too shrewd to be fooled by a lick of it.

That eventful morning, he was already eagerly anticipating his first cup of tea, and perhaps a spot of writing in bed, with a second cup steaming cheerfully at his elbow while he rested the desk on his lap atop the covers. It would make a very cosy nest to finish the novel he had started the night before. A hundred pages was sufficient to get the sense of the thing, and yet he could not seem to put it down. It was clearly meant as a general admonishment; a didactic treatise above all else. The hero was flat as the paper on which the words were printed, and did little else but speak impassioned, ridiculous soliloquies about how fulfilled he was rearing six children, keeping their shining faces free of jam. Alexander was eagerly anticipating eviscerating it, the author, and mocking the dreadful speeches besides.

After that, he would have to find a way to the village. The post had not come, which was a great disappointment. He had not expected a letter from George, especially since his last had not been sent away yet, but in truth George had proven to be a very dull correspondent, as he had confessed himself months ago. Alexander took solace not in the words per se, but in imagining George writing them, the pen looking very small in his broad hands, the other laid flat atop the sheet of paper to hold it down with a firm pressure as he scratched out the words, his fingers curling up at the knuckles as he folded it, the decisive, final stamp of the wax seal over the open flap. A warm, pleasurable feeling pooled in his stomach at the image, which quickly faded into annoyance. If the nation was at war, and his husband placed in charge of a goodly portion of it, and even as he dodged bullets, and issued orders, and bayoneted more than a few men, and sprang from Nelson's back, his feet scarcely in the stirrups as he was lifted up so high that he toppled over, and fell into the mud, and was nearly crushed beneath the forward charge of the cavalry — if  _he_ could write, then surely they could as well? John had not written, nor Eliza. Angelica was of course far too busy to spare him the time, and Lady Catherine had never written him a line in her life, all her letters coming to the household through her husband. But Mr. Schuyler? Aaron? John Laurens? Had they all forgotten him so quickly?

Well, no matter. He would deliver the letters piling on the sideboard himself, if it came to that. They could not ignore him forever. 

George had mentioned in passing that he might walk to the village, but how distant it was, Alexander had scant idea, nor any indication how long it would take him. His husband had long legs, a great stride, and a quick pace, and what might have taken _him_ forty minutes on foot might require twice that. Outside, the wind whipped, and drove up tiny prickles of rain which pinged against the mullioned windows. Well, if he were to walk it, his shoes would hardly be suitable. George might have left a pair of stout Hessians behind. No doubt they would be too tall on him, but he would manage. He could stuff the toes with spare stockings, so they would not slide about on his small, delicate feet.

All this swirled through his mind as left his room and made for the kitchen, descended the stairs, turned down the hall, and walked under the vaulted archway to find another man there. Alexander nearly jumped with the force of his surprise, and hurriedly grabbed the open flaps of his robe and pulled it tightly closed around himself. Another man! What scandal! A married man alone with an unmarried one! The one in his sleeping garments, quite undressed, and the other? 

Quite naked, as it turned out, in the absolutely _Biblical_ sense of the word. He stood before the stove, holding a long fork on which he was toasting a large piece of Alexander's bread. Alexander was by now no blushing virgin, and yet; he blushed. “Oh!” he exclaimed, as his eyes landed, wholly inopportunely, on an exceedingly well-defined place that practically begged for a person to focus his attention there. _There_. Not at the ceiling, nor the piece of bread charring on the end of a long fork beneath the grill, whose long, slender form invited yet more attention and concealed absolutely nothing, really.

Why shouldn’t he look? He was only human, was he not? Any sensible woman with eyes might have acted exactly the same, before finding herself covering by a sudden fit of coughing, or a sneeze into a handkerchief. A man, if he inclined to the sort of daydreams our Alexander was prey to, would look, and then he might go seek a quiet chair in a corner, and if particularly overcome, would summon a servant for a sponge soaked in spirit of hartshorn and a nourishing sip of brandy. The Marquis turned even men’s heads, those for whom women were the sole object of interest and attraction, and even they might feel woozy for a time when confronted with such a specimen, as perfect as a Xhosa diamond and exactly as impervious to harm. 

The bread dangled and a rounded edge caught, sending up a puff of grey smoke into the room. The Marquis barely fluttered an eyelash, though he moved a fraction backwards and blew out the blooming flame.

Alexander, by now studiously trying to look away, managed to trip over a tufted footstool which he had left in the middle of the room. The day prior he had decided to soap the kitchen floor, and never bothered to replace it. He would soon come to regret that omission. For one thing, the footstool was quite old, and the wooden leg creaked when Alexander stubbed his bare toe against it, and then, as he hopped about clutching the injured foot in his as-yet uninjured hand, managed to overbalance himself and crumple, in one jerky movement, arms windmilling wildly as he fell to the floor, where the stool smashed beneath his hip. 


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Un Cheval Pour Alexander — A Visit to the Village — Future Plans — The Third Inhabitant_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for blood and animal death, corporal punishment mention.

‘Oui?’ pronounced the Marquis, when he at last ascertained that the elaborate collapse was quite finished. He stepped away from the stove in order to peer down at the flustered lump that was Alexander whose sole consolation in the matter was that he was too dizzy to look up and so spared himself any further embarrassment. The Frenchman now repeated himself; now in such a way that the minute word stretched itself the to a length of six syllables, oozing as slow as sap from a birch tree waiting to be tapped in spring. The comparative indifference in the one small word managed to imply not only that he considered Alexander an idiot of the highest degree, but also managed to imply that he, Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, in-demand tutor to princes, most intimate friend of king consorts, cared not one jot whether or not he answered at all.

‘Oh!’ said Alexander once more, as it quickly became evident that the tall chiseled stranger with the artfully mussed hair had no intention of being chivalrous, seeing as how he had yet to even extend a hand to him where he lay crumpled. The footstool’s padded cover listed forlornly to one side, so it was no help in getting him up from the floor. Gingerly, he placed his palm on the ground and art least set himself aright, unfolding his legs as he did so. Then he looked up, mustered his courage, and cleared his throat.

‘Hello,’ he tried cautiously, in his schoolroom French, and at this juncture it may behoove our reader to recall that the erstwhile Mr. Benjamin Franklin had been a good tutor, yet his own certain proclivities meant that Alexander better understood how to _faire un compliment_ to an esteemed (and hopefully rich) older lady than to speak with a handsome man about the practical business of, for starters, obtaining a horse or ordering an omelette, or buying a pair of shoes. Poetry he could recite without compunction, but while the Marquis was certainly an attractive specimen about whom whole odes might be composed, poetry on the whole has as yet not proven itself an effective medium for getting things done. For this we must rely on the stark simplicity afforded by prose.

Meanwhile, the Marquis cocked his head. Encouraged by this rather lukewarm reception, Alexander now pushed himself to his feet, dusted off his dressing gown, and continued in this same jolting delivery. We will again beg the reader’s indulgence for the intrusion; but can at the least spare her the phonetic butchery which ensued therein.

‘Hello. It is good to make your acquaintance. I am Alexander. We met at the place with the dancing. This was in the spring. My sister Angelica married your pupil. His name is John?’

The response was deafening. Alexander had never heard grapeshot fired at close range against a mass of charging infantry, but the reply sounded very similar and just as sudden. A torrent of syllables which he supposed a more clever, quick-thinking man might be able to parse as words, were discharged with what appeared to be an as yet unidentified strong emotion. There was a great deal of gesticulating. Here he wished heartily that he had begun the conversation in his native language, where he would have been on much more solid footing. As it stood now it would be rude to retract the implicit offer in favour of his own increased comfort.

‘I agree,’ he said with a decisive nod, without having in the least any sense of what he was presently agreeing to. The language was much greater a barrier than he had expected. If only the Marquis would not speak quite so _fast_! ‘Oh, and one more thing. I wish to go to the village. I have letters. I need to send my letters. Can you please help me to send my letters?’

Again the canon fired; this time Alexander managed to catch the words ‘distant,’ and ‘bell,’ and ‘snow,’ accompanied with gestures that made liberal use of the toasting fork, before the Marquis settled once more into expectant silence. Unsure how he was supposed to answer, Alexander chewed his bottom lip. He did not enjoy feeling stupid, but there it was. ‘I see,’ said Alexander slowly, though clearly he saw nothing, understood little, and comprehended even less. At this point he was willing to brave the journey on foot, though he knew not how far he had to travel. The letters must be dispatched somehow or he would lose his appointment with Mr. Jefferson. And that was yet another matter, for he was swiftly running short on novels, and the reviews were his bread and butter. Along with the investments made by Angelica on his behalf, these were the only means he had for earning an independent living. He felt quite strongly that he should do so. Thus if the post would not visit Mount Vernon, he would have to visit the post.

‘Is there a carriage?’ he put to the Marquis. ‘A carriage would be very pleasant. I would like to go there in a carriage.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed the Marquis, with an expectant noise which promised more information than it delivered. And here he shook his head forlornly. By way of his grimace, and the downcast manner in which he described...something or other...with wheels? and...paint? Then he shrugged meaningfully once more, and fell silent.

From this, Alexander gathered that the carriage was in poor condition and unfit for travel. However then the Marquis’ face broke into a smile again, and he offered, in so many words and gestures, the suggestion that a horse could be found to bear him there.

‘Oh!’ said Alexander. (For the record, this was an English ejaculation rather than a French one.) He disliked horses, and they him, but the Marquis did press so him, going as far as to lay a hand on his arm and to gesticulate madly at the window with the long, pointy fork, that he felt he could not refuse what was clearly on offer. And it would perhaps have the added benefit of drawing their intercourse to a close, as their respective states of dress and undress had passed well beyond horror, shaded into humour, and had settled into a miasma of discomfort that hung in the kitchen like a bad smell; blanched pigs’ guts, or boiled cabbage.

‘Well,’ he declared after an interval, ‘If it is the only way. Yes. I will ride a small horse. But only a small horse.' 

Then changing from an easy smile to an insistent scowl, the Marquis blasted off a final volley of words (‘retrieve,’ ‘bedchamber,’ and ‘an hour’s time’ among them, the sense of which even Alexander could engage for) and took himself, his toast, the fork, and all the rest, back to the mistress’ chambers. The oaken door slammed shut behind him.

Relieved, Alexander breathed out a heady sigh. Then when he had exhaled all the air from his lungs, he slumped into a blessedly solid chair, utterly mortified. Oh, what a start to his life there! What an abominable impression he must have made! And the report would surely make its way back to Ms. Noailles, and then where would he be? She would think him an uncultured buffoon, a provincial embarrassment with whom she would be ashamed to share her table.

(Never mind that Adrienne had yet to appear at table, and also took an entirely liberal view regarding dining in company, which was that it was a waste of time, and was so in no position to judge Alexander for a single transgression.)

On the whole, he was quite rattled by this encounter but he at last managed to calm his nerves with the usual morning routine. Toast consumed and tea drunk he went upstairs to dress and collect his correspondence and his letter of credit, should he encounter anything in the village worth purchasing.

Sure enough, a rap on the door came within the hour. Behind it stood the Marquis, if not completely fit for company in his state of disheveled dress than at least less shockingly unattired than before, with a smile hinting at the accomplishment of great things in the interval.

They made their way across the courtyard and round to the stables. ‘Oh!’ was all Alexander had to say when the Marquis unbolted the doors and flung them wide open with a flamboyant flourish. ‘Et voila!’ he said, and stepped back to allow Alexander to take in the welcome sight of a very small and sturdy pony with a shock of white hair that stood out brightly against its reddish-brown coat. It had large eyes partially covered by its fringe with which it looked sadly down at Alexander, as if it were remembering some tragic event that had taken place on precisely the spot where he now stood quaking in his shoes, however many years ago.

Another batch of words landed. The Marquis indicated that Alexander should hew to the path, which presumably the pony knew well enough to traverse without guidance. Under no circumstances was he to deviate from it. There were hunters about, for game season was in full thrush, and with his brown coat he could easily be mistaken for a doe, if he were not careful about it.

Then he looked on with an eagle eye as Alexander approached in a supplicating, bobbing manner that would have failed to impress a larger horse, but which the pony accepted good-naturedly. Slinging a foot up, he tried and failed to hoist himself into the saddle, until at last the Marquis took pity on him. The man had fingers suitable for the piano, delicate and long, and Alexander could not help but notice them as he was boosted into his seat with the other man’s assistance. The pony stood quietly as all this was happening, until at last Alexander was settled in the saddle, with his feet secure in the stirrups.

Having decided that the directions he had received thus far were likely to be the best he would get, he proceeded to tug gently on the reins. When the pony did not respond, the Marquis took them directly from Alexander’s trembling hands, gave them a sharp tug as he simultaneously delivered a hearty smack to the animal’s rump, and with a jolt and a minor yelp — from Alexander, it should be said, not the placid pony — they were on the move.

 

~*~

 

If he had set out with trepidation, then Alexander’s return to Mount Vernon was conducted with all the pride and self-satisfaction of a triumphal return from a military campaign. In the several hours he had whiled away there, he had overseen the delivery of three dozen different envelopes to a very overwhelmed provincial postwoman. In this woman’s defense, she usually saw that sort of volume only at Christmastime, which would be arriving soon enough, God save her, with all its parcels and chattering customers, and special requests, and an endless stream of well wishes shuffled from one end of the country to the other by hitch and post. She dreaded it already, even a month away.

Alexander had been so delighted to be able to speak freely with another person, in a language whose nuance and syntax came as naturally to him as breathing, that he babbled on very indiscriminately for far too long, until the patron behind him coughed into her gloved hand to remind him that others were waiting their turn in the queue. Then he blushed and bid the postwoman good day, and set about finding a place where he might fortify himself for the journey home.

Three dozen letters sent to London, Monmouth, and as far as France! And a note for John, asking if he would be so kind as to call upon Alexander on the Friday next to discuss the holidays. This would give him enough time to make the house presentable for visitors. And even better, when Alexander gave the postwoman his name for the returns she gasped, and pulled from some mysterious shadowy corner a parcel, addressed to Mr. Hamilton, which had not yet made its way to Mount Vernon. And one letter, no — _two_ whole letters! One from Aaron Burr (now, of course, Prevost), with a return address from his new home in Cheltenham, and one from Angelica, who was presently in London.

Impatient as he was to read these, and hungry for a hot meal besides, he enquired of another lady in the queue, who had a kind, open face, and a fine dress of burgundy satin, if she knew where he might be able to dine. There was a tea room which she suggested, but when he looked in at the address she had given him, it appeared to be closed for no apparent reason. As is often the case in small towns and villages, the opening hours of such establishments are written down nowhere, posted never, and appear entirely contingent upon whether or not the proprietress felt like having a lie-down in the middle of the afternoon.

After peering through the windows, even going so far as to rap on the locked door, Alexander was beyond patience. His toes ached from standing in the cold, and there was little purpose in standing about. Catching sight of a crowd of passing working women, who tended to travel in chattering packs, he followed them to the pub for their afternoon pint.

It was early yet, and the place was uncrowded. In a crowd his presence might have gone without notice. If it had been suppertime then there might have been other men for him to dine beside; rougher, coarser labourers who took their meal in the back room, shut away from the main area. There was not a law, specifically, stating that men were barred from the public house, but their presence was unusual enough to be remarked upon.

Especially in the daytime, dressed as he was? Clad in fine buckled shoes and thin silken stockings, with his hair artfully arranged? Alexander’s cheeks were stained pink from being out in the wind, but from a distance one would think he had rouged them to be such a colour. As it were, several of the women stared at him outright, whereas others, more respectable sorts whose aspirations shaded into middle class and who loved their husbands, first and second, simply pretended that they had not seen him at all. There was but one male person there, other than the proprietress’ boy, but he kept himself to the shadows. He was a fine enough sort of fellow, with a heart of gold despite his profession, which is more common in stories than reality. He looked at Alexander with unabashed curiosity, but did not recognize a fellow artisan of the trade, and so thought it best to refrain from striking up a conversation.

Oblivious to the interest which his presence garnered, Alexander happily consumed a glass of cold beer and a properly made pie. He began by reading his letter from Aaron which managed to convey the utmost level of condescension but did so with a supremely friendly air. He reported that his new life with the Prevosts suited him quite well; though he did not have as much society as in the past, there was more than enough with his duties at the parish and around the household to keep him occupied, what with Theodosia’s child expected any day now. He ended with an enquiry after Alexander’s health, good wishes for his mistress, and fortifying words for Mr. Washington, which he hoped Alexander would pass on down the line. Then he extended an offer for Alexander to visit him at Cheltenham, or if that did not prove convenient, they would soon be relocated to Somerset and his mother’s former parish. The invitation may have been sincerely meant, but the prospect of being in such close proximity to Theodosia so terrified him, that he set the letter down and called for a second pint, and a nip of brandy to steady his nerves.

Angelica reported news regarding her own progress. Though her doctor advocated bed rest, Lady Catherine believed in second opinions, and third, and fourth, and fifth ones. At this rate, she had been seen by nearly every generalist in Harley Street, and a good third of the specialists besides. What they all agreed upon was that she should wait to travel until after the New Year at least. Perhaps he would be so good as to spend his holidays with John rather than at Mount Vernon? A few lines were devoted to this entreaty, which sounded altogether appealing to Alexander. The Church family would lay in an excellent repast for Christmas, and he would have a room to himself, and dine well all through Epiphany. He would accept the invitation at once, even if that necessitated a second trip to the post office after he had finished at the pub.

She closed by mentioning that his investments were sound; should she buy more of the same, or did he wish to diversify? Mr. Jefferson had a small printing establishment that he had offered a good price for shares in, especially as his publications were proving popular these days. Had he heard of the lady called _Publia_ , who wrote such scathing reviews of novels? She had enclosed a few for his edification, and hoped he would not be shocked by what he found there.

Onto the table tumbled out clippings that had come, in fact, from his own pen. Alexander covered his mouth to keep from laughing outright, in seeing his own words delivered back to him as the height of scandal. Here they were, in newsprint and block letters. His words, on the page! Yes, of course they must invest in Mr. Jefferson’s enterprise, and support it with yet more writing. They would have to diversify in this as well. Pamphlets on education were ripe for satire, he thought, and perhaps a few serious handbooks might be written in their place. The market of manuals for marriage was endless in its thirst for new material, challenges to the old status quo. He would begin at once.

A new persona would have to be created and given a name. Perhaps a few of these, so that they might converse and debate with one another in the public arena. He stood hastily, eager to return to the relative comfort of his chambers and to begin this ambitious undertaking. His head swam like a creek full of minnows, but a kind lady helped him with a hand on his back, then sent him on his way with a wink and a nod, saying that she was often there of an afternoon, should he be seeking companionship.

In his haste, Alexander did not even grasp the full purport of her statement until he was on his way back to the post office, and then he stopped short of the door and blushed. She thought such a thing of him! Why, he was a gentleman! And married! Landed, even, in a sense! Well, that would never do. He could not draw undue attention to himself and bring shame upon George, who was a fixture if not a presence in the county. Thus he resolved to have a more sober suit made, of gray flannel cloth such as a labourer might wear, and a pair of simple boots. His hair he did not wish to cut, but he would tie it back in as plain a queue as possible and so avoid unwanted attention. 

The postal shop was overseen by a cat, who looked at him with narrowed green eyes as the bell tinkled. From behind the counter, the postwoman glowered when she saw who it was. However, he was less talkative this time around, wholly absorbed in his own thoughts. She permitted him use of a pen, and sold him some cheap paper at a very dear cost. He dashed off a quick note to John, asking him to visit Mount Vernon on Friday next, and sent this off with the postal seal upon it. Then, on a lark, he visited the sole shop in town and gave an order for a four bolts of good Scots flannel, as winter was looming.

As he rounded the bend in the direction of home — and that was how he had already begun to consider Mount Vernon, even lonely as he was, and without George by his side, his home it was nonetheless — a large oak tree came into view on the horizon with three irregular shapes hanging from a low branch, like corpses swinging from a gibbet. Drawing closer as the pony trudged steadily on, he saw that there was a tall horse grazing some distance from the tree, and a person, whom on second inspection proved to have the distinctive shape of a woman, albeit one in rumpled pants and bare shirtsleeves, who was engaged in the kind of purposeful activity that we may, as she comes into focus, recognize as the gutting of a fresh kill. Whether stag or deer, doe or her fawn, an animal must be dressed immediately if the meat is not to spoil. It might have been done closer to the main house, even in the barn, but Adrienne preferred it this way, even if the wind did whip at her hair and pull it from its plait, and the grey cloud which had lingered the whole afternoon at last decided to spit miniscule flakes of snow, so small as to be mere granules of ice, which stung as they hit Alexander's flushed cheeks. 

Adrienne's hair again fell into her eyes and obscured her vision. Again she wiped her noble forehead in frustration, but this time the motion left her face streaked with rusty blood, still liquid though congealing quickly in the cold. Taking in a great gulp of air, Adrienne once more applied herself to fitting the hooked edge of her blade beneath the sternum of the fat whitetail which had been tied by its forelegs a branch, and dug her heels in to the frozen ground. 

With a loud crack the bone split, and from there her knife moved easily, the flesh parting before it. It cut through the fine pelt, the skin, the thin layer of fat beneath, and the membrane which held it all together, and with a vigorous tug and a loud grunt, the entrails spilled out into a messy heap upon the dry earth below her feet. 

Alexander watched this with curiosity from his place atop the pony, and then he found he was no longer quite so curious, but in fact rather dizzy, though he had consumed but a few drinks at the pub. The excitement, and the successful trip to the village, and the success with his correspondence, and seeing his own words in print, and the package from Mr. Jefferson, and riding properly for the first time in his adult life, and really, so very much blood, quite a lot, as a matter of fact, of blood everywhere, spurting wetly from arteries and veins in what seemed to him to be every direction, and steaming as it made contact with the cold air, and though he had been cold before on his ride home, now everything seemed very hot, his collar too tight, and his waistcoat overly nipped in, and the band of his breeches too constrictive, and the whole of it, too warm, shockingly so, even as snowflakes landed gracefully in his eyelashes. 

The mistress of Mount Vernon, Martha Washington's heir, chanced to look up at Alexander, and was about to say 'Oui?' in a tone rather less condescending but altogether more curt than that of her lover, but equally as French, as his eyes rolled back in his head and everything — the cold afternoon light, and the three fat corpses hanging from the tree, and the woman who looked like the portraits which hung round on either side of the fireplace, but more free, in her white shirt and red-stained hands, so very free as to be frightening — everything at once went altogether black. 


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Venison Stew — A Visit from John Church Schuyler — The First General Washington — Tea and Company_

Alexander had a realization in the fleeting moment before he lost consciousness: Adrienne!

The one to whom he must ever defer as the lady of the house, and indeed who looked ever so menacing with a large knife grasped in her bare hand. In any age would she have been considered a tremendous beauty, and having seen her fine features arranged in contrast to such a terrible, messy act had made an impression upon Alexander. It was one he would retain for the rest of his life. Whenever anybody had chance to mention Adrienne she would appear, in that flash we call memory, as a blood-spattered angel in tweed. But that comes later. For the present moment he pitched forward, and back, and only by quick thinking on her part in rushing forward to catch him as he swooned did he avoid toppling from the saddle altogether.

She laid him out upon the ground, turning his cloak into a blanket and positioning his head so that it was laid out upon a swelling hillock which indicated the subterranean presence of a large tree root. He snuffled and winced as she lugged him about, but he did not wake. Adrienne pushed aside his neckcloth and pressed two fingers to his throat, whereupon she discovered that his pulse was steady, if a smidge elevated. He was in no immediate danger, whereas the deer…

Adrienne glanced at Alexander and sighed. Hands on her hips, she shook her head, and then resumed her work. The pony she tethered to her own horse so that the two might graze on the brown grass in the meanwhile. Pragmatic as always; for it would not do to wait. All the gutting, skinning, and butchery should really be accomplished outdoors in the cold, before the weather turned and caused the carcasses to rot.

Not until the sun sunk lower in the sky was the bloody business at last complete. The beasts were laden, the deer corpses cut down from the trees. Turning homewards, the lady and her venison rode home, with Alexander slung over the back of her tall horse and the pony laden with the rest. One foot in front of the other they made their way at a slow pace through the woods, the meadows and then the fields, past the tenant’s cottages, and — as the sun set — the overgrown kitchen garden, the ice house, the outer barn, the inner stable, and into the courtyard as Venus appeared in the sky.

 _‘Gilbert!’_ she called. The man’s head appeared outside the door momentarily. _‘Tu peux m’aider s’il te plaît?’_

He hurried over to the pony and took Alexander into his custody, but not before Adrienne had risen onto her tiptoes and tugged him down by his curly queue into a very passionate kiss. Just as he was beginning to feel the effects of it, Alexander snuffled against Gilbert’s back, and as the Marquis was a ticklish fellow, the motion caused him to smile against her lips.

 _‘Il aura un mal de tête quand il se réveille,’_ she said, here meaning Alexander. Then she settled back onto her heels, briefly permitted Gilbert to kiss her but once on the very tip of her nose — which seemed to be the only clean place remaining on the whole of her body — and at last noticing the state she was in, took herself off to have a bath. Tomorrow she would deal with the messy business of decapitation and see about adding to the collection mounted in the hall.

After Alexander was seen safely to his bed, the Marquis unloaded the venison from the horses. A good chunk of it he cut away to roast for their dinner that night. The rest he set to stew in a low oven, the meat submerged beneath a bottle of ordinary claret — drinkable but not worth saving — and rather more garlic than any sensible person would enjoy consuming.

When he came to later that night, Alexander’s head still ached. Adrienne had surmised correctly, and so alongside the steaming bowlful of venison stew the Marquis graciously brought to him in bed, was also a warm compress. This consisted of a clove-studded boiled onion wrapped in gauze. The warmth did ease the pain somewhat, but as both temples ached, he was required to move it from side to side in order to get any relief. A second compress would have been welcome, but he had absolutely no idea how to go about requesting another. There was a dictionary about the place somewhere, but every time he thought that he should arise and find it — for really he should have known the words! How hard could it be to learn a foreign language from a book? He had done it once with his Latin, and his Greek, though those lived only in books, for all intents and purposes dead to the world at large. But he might be able to speak with the Frenchwoman, if he tried. Surely it was only a matter of practice? Why, he would converse with himself, if that is what it took — he saw white spots, and his stomach lurched. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows.

 

~*~

 

Alexander looked very pointedly at Adrienne, who was herself pointedly ignoring the look. He had spent the morning preparing the lower floor for John’s visit, and had polished the dining room table, where he expected they would take tea, as it was proximate to the kitchens. The front hall was much grander but less intimate, and as he would have to do all the serving himself, it would be too far to traverse comfortably. He might have engaged the Marquis, had that man not been called away by the nervous father-in-law of a local newlywed, whose wife gave every indication that she would seek an annulment before the year was up: and what would be left for him them, but the shame of his family home, or the asylum, or ruin, if it came to that? 

But to return to the dining room and the table, we will match our attention to Alexander’s own. He could have been thinking about any number of things: John’s immanent arrival, the lopsided cake he had made the night before and which he had yet cover with its frosting, or the attack in the Channel which had sunk two ships of the line earlier in the week;—dreadful news, and perhaps signaling a turn for the worse in world events. At least the returns on iron had been sound. But all this receded from focus in light of the imminent prospect of company. He had so much to do, yet he could scarce focus on anything but Adrienne’s tall boots, which were at the moment more comprised of brown mud than black leather. 

He had recently become acquainted with her bad habit of leaving these in whatever room she decided to strip them off in; often this might be somewhere he might routinely trip over them. This was in fact intentional. Adrienne was simply marking her territory, the way a cat might leave a dead mouse, still pliable and warm, on a doorstep or near the leg of a chair. The boots had thus far been found by Alexander in the kitchen, the foyer, the great hall, the dining room, and a further two dozen times on the staircase which led up to his rooms. Over the past week, in his broken but slightly less-rusty French, he had gone so far as to suggest that she might be so kind as to leave her shoes inside the entryway. The space existed for this very purpose. For her convenience he had purchased a large cocoanut fibre mat that might keep grass and mud off his, or rather _their_ , floor?

Adrienne had chosen to ignore this directive masquerading as a query. This was her space by birthright to live in and leave a mess as she pleased. If Alexander had managed to worm his way into George’s affections, and she would be forced to share her environment with him, then the least he could do would be to leave her well alone. But no, he had gone so far as to chasten her. As if he knew better than she how she should conduct herself in her own house. She had half a mind to turn the kitchen into an abattoir, if only to shut him up. Short-term she had simply ignored him and in counter-demonstrative protest had taken to wearing her Hessians inside the house, particularly if she had traipsed through mud or better still, fresh horse dung. It upset him to no end. 

For a week he had been irritated with this habit, and thought it bad enough that she left smears and flakes all over his shining stone floors and freshly-aired out rugs. Today, though, she had gone too far. Her dirty boots were propped insouciantly atop the dining table, which he had polished only the night before in preparation for John’s visit. She was baiting him, sat there. Cleaning dirt out from beneath her fingernails with the tip of her knife, and meticulously examining what she unearthed before wiping the blade on her trouser leg.

He wished to say something. But she was the matriarch, the lady of the house, and he only an interloper, as he had been in every place he had ever lived since his childhood. With George away he could not reasonably expect any special treatment from her, though her lover Lafayette seemed, at least, to have warmed to him very slightly. It turned out that he was a quite skilled cook, among his myriad other talents, though Adrienne still refused to sit down at table with either man as company.

Instead he glared, and she rebuffed this attention by ignoring him. He grimaced as he ferried over the cup of tea he had prepared her, but he did perk up when she pulled a silver flask from inside her coat. This, which contained quite a fine _brandy de Jerez_ , did she hold up with a cocked eyebrow — a white flag indicating a _détente_ , if you will, for the duration — and he accepted without hesitation. She poured a generous glug into her cup and then into his. Thanks were offered by Alexander in his badly-accented French, and acknowledged by a slight lifting of her pointed chin, and then they both drank, silently.

Yes, it is a slow business, learning to live with someone else. Especially if they are trapped there by circumstances, and you by Providence, and the both of you by fate. For such persons, time is no substitute for the comfort which distance and independence provide. They will merely endure one another until each can maintain their own household, or go free as they please. After which time, it should be said, they will prove the steadiest of friends for all eternity. And so it would be with these two, but that, too, comes later.

 

~*~

 

The rap on the door broke the silence that had settled over Mount Vernon.

‘Hello!’ said Alexander, opening the door with a broad smile. It swung inwards with a sullen creak to reveal his guest, who was twisting his hands nervously as he awaited his welcome. True to form, Alexander had been in a flurry this past hour, as he had put everything off until the last minute. He had barely finished decorating the cake before rushing off to dress. Such haste had he acted in, in fact, that when they sat down to their tea, the icing had barely set, and shimmied beneath the knife. It wobbled like the flesh of a woman’s inner thigh, not that we could expect Alexander to appreciate the innate sensuality of such a comparison.

He waited to catch his breath before he greeted John, as he was winded from bustling around the rooms with a cloth one last time to scrub away any traces of Adrienne and her accompanying dirt. At last she had got bored with antagonizing Alexander and so had taken herself off to the pub for a game of cards, dice, whatever was the going concern that afternoon. As it stood she owed heavily at the pub itself, as it was much easier to stand drinks on account and save her coins for wagers.

While in the carriage, John had bundled up against the cold, with a rug across his lap and a fox fur slung round his shoulders. However he left all that on the seat, and so appeared on the doorstep in a deceptively simple suit, which was part of his wedding _trousseau_ and which he liked to reserve for the most special occasions. It was also pressed into service for society events. Then his duty was to appear on Angelica’s arm like a smiling doll, to bow and nod and kiss the hands of an endless parade of influential society women. Angelica expected him to charm them on her behalf. It was an arduous business, to be a political husband, but as he had been given no say in the matter all he could do was perform to the best of his ability.

He looked very well indeed, with clothing that consisted of a light woolen cloak the exact colour of Welsh slate. Beneath that was a dove-gray suit, as well as a lovely brocaded waistcoat composed of delicate filigree woven from the palest cerulean and silver threads. The colours were very striking, and brought out the blue undertones of his skin. His breeches were of the same buttery fabric, cut very narrow through the hips, in a manner that skirted the bounds of propriety — but such is fashion! These were fastened at the knee with embossed silver buttons that had been polished until they gleamed. His stockings were brand new, freshly purchased from the shop only the day before. He had money enough to enjoy this small luxury whenever he liked, and it always made him feel more confident when visiting new acquaintances. His shoes were a modest heel, enough to make him erect but not to tower over Alexander, who was much shorter. 

‘Alexander!’ beamed John, and they clasped hands across the threshold.

‘John!’ said Alexander, with a smile like the morning sun. ‘How good it is of you to come all this way.’

‘It is no trouble, I assure you,’ replied John, though he shivered on the doorstep from cold. Alexander gave his friend a curious look, and then, as if a private signal had passed between them, they embraced passionately — quite! Even there, in sight of God and neighbours, should any have been to hand. 

Reader, such an embrace was this; as if they had not seen one another only a few weeks before, and had not been living beneath the same roof for some time prior. Perhaps it was on account of that former closeness, however, that they fell upon one another with the ardour of young lovers, and Alexander’s hand found John’s forearm, in a gesture nearly Roman and unconscious, and John’s own heartbeat quickened at the touch, so that the smile he passed along to Alexander was shy but flirtatious.

They had become fast friends, as a young man and a still younger one often will. John admired Alexander, and Alexander was still impressionable enough that he thought it really mattered to be the sort of person who was admired. With time he would mature enough to understand that this means nothing in the scheme of things, and fretted not at all about being liked. However he failed to outgrow his incessant need for attention, which was at present was sorely desired, what with George out of the picture for the foreseeable future. This bad quality he would in fact retain for the remainder of his life.

‘But you must come in,’ he cried, and ushered John into the hall, and helped him out of that gray cloak. Their hands brushed against one another, John's hand beneath Alexander's on his shoulder. There would have been an awkward moment, had John’s eyes not landed on first the ancient tapestries and then danced over to the famous portrait of Martha which hung across from the fireplace.

‘Oh, Alexander!’ John clasped his hands together in excitement, came to stand very close to the painting and gazed at it with an upturned face. ‘How marvelous. You did not tell me it hung here.’

Martha herself stood majestic, unflappable, and curiously oblivious to the scene which raged in the background. Her head was uncovered; the left hand held the hat in such a way to draw attention to her stout and powerful thighs which the artist had rendered lovingly. These were shown to great effect in the white breeches she wore. Her hair was pulled back in a looser queue than any sensible lady would wear into battle, but which framed her wide face very romantically. A secret half-smile played about her full lips, benevolent but judgmental.

Alexander liked the portrait very much.

 He tried to look nonchalant though inside he was screamingly pleased and proud as could be to share some small part in the fortunes of the Washingtons. He did not oversee the estate, for as a man he could not even own property. He did not possess the painting, either, for that would remain with the family and pass to Adrienne, and her daughters upon George’s death. ‘I am glad it is here with me and not locked away in some cellar or in the vault at the bank. It is quite something to have it here in the house with me, to look upon whenever the mood strikes.’

‘What a remarkable woman,’ murmured John, though he was now looking not at Martha’s stern yet amused countenance, but instead directly at Alexander’s profile — the dark, expressive brows framing downturned eyes which led down to the aquiline sweep of his nose and still lower, to that soft red mouth with its crooked bottom teeth, and the freshly shaved chin and the temptingly covered expanse of neck below it.

For his part, Alexander was legitimately engrossed in the painting. It caused thoughts to arise in him, odd thoughts, speculations. Daydreams, in his own way. One narrative saw Martha survive the birth of her second child, and so she had remained with George, and the baby that was theirs. Then Alexander did not figure into the story at all. In another version he had met her, through some means or other (depending on how whimsical he felt that day). With pomp and fanfare taken him as her second husband, and he had worn white, and carried a giant bouquet, and been spoiled to no end. He wondered if George would have loved him to the same degree, or even— a ghastly thought, but the unpleasant can insinuate its way into even our cherished daydreams: some of us even dwell upon it — fallen in love with him at all.

Therefore while it is uncharitable to actively wish for another’s demise, Alexander was nevertheless too sensible to forget that he owed the dead woman a great debt. This could never be repaid. He looked upon her as a shared ancestor, even though their bloodlines intersected at no juncture until very far back in our history. 

‘That she is,’ he answered, as if she were still very much alive and even there, in the room with them. Then together they looked upon the handsome woman with the secret smile. She had been depicted standing in front of the terrifying white horse Alexander knew so well and loathed so much, which was rearing as if to charge into battle. Far behind the horse in the distance one could just make out — through the dust that indicated a recent battle and the smoke from ten-pound cannon fearsome and white against the ominous blue sky — the flag as it was whipped about by the wind. To be truthful, this was really the artist’s imagination at work, as it had been a truly placid day when they took the French fortifications; so still that blackfly and midges had settled on Martha as she accepted the surrender of the rival commander.

‘I confess,’ said John with feeling, as they walked from the hall into the next room, Alexander still holding his cloak for lack of any better place to put it, ‘that I wish I knew more about the history — of the war, I mean — the one now, and but certainly the ones prior. It is not a man's business, I know, but perhaps if I could speak of it, for Angelica's sake?' 

Alexander, who by reading and self-education knew a little, and from George had gleaned a bit more, did not think John’s gentle nature would be enhanced by such knowledge. Instead he turned the topic to the house and its improvements, which had to date been merely superficial, and seemed to be costing him every coin as fast as he could earn it.

‘Tell me,’ he said, as they made their way into the dining area and in the direction of their awaiting cake, ‘what do you think it would cost to cover these chairs with a better fabric?' He showed John the dining set, which was stained, and generally shabby. 'They seem very old-fashioned to me.’

John, who had been raised with money, did not find the question off-putting, whereas a more refined person would have been taken aback by the directness in Alexander’s enquiry. He looked at the chairs, which were rather old-fashioned, and said, ‘I think they are of good enough quality, but it may be just as expensive to cover them as to buy a new set. What does your mistress think of redecorating? Has she an opinion on the matter? My Angelica has plenty, though I have told her countless times that her business is to work as best she can whilst she grows the baby, and I will take care of all the rest. It is a frivolous business, to make a house comfortable, but I confess I do enjoy it.’

Alexander choked back a rude laugh, knowing that Angelica had opinions galore, on every topic under the sun. But he said simply, 'She does not seem to have much interest in the household, if I am honest, but I am not sure how she will feel about alterations.'

'I see,' said John, and rubbed his fingers over the pale tufted velvet. 'Well, if you require any assistance, I am on intimate terms with every proprietress in the county. And I am sure we will travel to town again soon, and my father knows many purveyors of fine goods there as well.' 

'Thank you,' said Alexander with a sincere attitude. 'If you would like to sit,' he said, a bit awkwardly, 'I have made us a cake.' 

John sat daintily, the cake was cut, and the tea was poured. They settled upon various topics, with Alexander remembering George's gentle chastisement and steering the conversation to those things which would not cause John undue agitation. Their plans for Christmas were discussed at length; the menu, and the trimmings. John pulled out his needlework to show Alexander the gift he was making for Angelica, and asked with curiosity, 'And what will you be making Mr. Washington, Alexander? He might like a scarf, though I suppose it is not approved for the regiment, now is it? Socks, then?' he asked, and here blessedly was too engrossed in attempting to cut through his slice of cake (it was very dry, almost like a biscuit really) to notice that Alexander had dropped his fork and had one hand pressed over his mouth in horror. He had forgotten to get his husband a present, and it would never make it to him in time for the holiday. 


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In the Blackberry Bushes — Angelica's Present Condition — Eliza's Future — So Much Work to Be Done_

‘Here!’ John pulled back the glossy leaves to reveal a cluster of the dark berries, then shifted his parasol to the side so that Alexander might be able to pick them more easily. The gesture was well-intentioned. Yet there was artfulness in it as well, for in moving the parasol he was able to lean over behind his companion; the better to point out what he had missed. If perchance their shoulders brushed against one another during the process, well, such a thing could hardly be helped.

‘For goodness sake!’ snapped Alexander, as the poor dear was altogether irritated. They had been out in the midday sunshine for such a long time already, and he was anxious to have done with the expedition. It was at John’s behest that they were engaged in berrying at all. The crop was nearly a month early this year, owing to the mild winter they had had.

Now, winter seemed very far away. It was so very hot, for May. He had hoped for rain, which was a guarantee that the engagement would have to be delayed, and then he might so unburdened of society return to the papers he had left piled atop his desk.

Currently, Alexander was taking part in an argument with four other major participants. The argument which, for reference, was about the education afforded to boys (and then, naturally, only those of a certain station, and only up to an appropriate age, for a woman does not like her husband to be too well-schooled, merely bright enough to converse with on occasion) —

_A precise definition of education I take to mean the attention paid to children by adults especially, that hones their senses, forms the character, and regulates the will. In this way a person may begin to have the capacity to think, and better still, to reason. In order to avoid misunderstandings, let me be completely clear. No education can remedy the defects of the society in which it came to be. Hence it may then be understood that, until such time as society comes to be different, we can hardly expect miracles from education..._

— was being waged across small pamphlets and in newsprint. Other hangers-on offered their own opinions, running parallel alongside or counter to the argument's main facets, in the broadsides’ regular columns.

The fighting in and of itself was no problem: Alexander loved to argue. Complications arose from the fact that three of the other participants were actually _also_ Alexander himself writing under a series of pseudonyms. Thus it happened that very often he would begin a retort in one persona only to remember that he was meant to be agreeing with himself (that is, his real, or real- _est_ self) rather than offering rebuttal which was, in fact, merely a straw argument that would be easily refuted later on. He had drawn a chart with the lines of argumentation and traced it back a dozen times, but mistakes were constantly being made. His head ached every night as he fell into bed, shoulders aflame from being stooped over his desk at all hours. 

Still, people who use their work as an excuse for being cross are, as a rule, permitted to engage in gainful employment. A woman may have a dreadful day at the office, and her husband will fix her tea, or something stronger, and her favourite meal, and listen to her attentively if she wishes to complain and if she wishes to ignore the subject entirely, then they may talk of pleasant things: their daughters' schoolwork, a new style of hat he saw that afternoon in a shop window and fancied immensely. The woman might buy it for him on her way home from the office, a trifle to lighten the tiresome drudgery of his days, and they would both be pleased enough with their roles, for who could know better? 

As for work: Alexander was doing all this in secret. He had no husband to whom he could complain. Best to keep this from George, whose letters were fewer and briefer than they had ever been at any point prior since the previous autumn. Reports on the weather, enquires after Angelica's health, and Adrienne's finances, his love for his husband, and no more. 

Save for the known quantity of Mr. Jefferson, who was happy to act as his sole agent while the money flowed in, and the local postwoman — who had begun to have her suspicions after the turning of the year: such a quantity of post for a young husband, even more than a man having a _liaison amoureuse_ might produce — but as luck would have it she could be kept quiet about them with regular presents such as, say, blackberry preserves — he had to keep his frustrations to himself.

‘John, please. I have them, stop crowding me so!’ 

With an abashed look John stepped back and permitted the sun-dappled space between their bodies to widen once more. When Alexander turned around, his hands now filled with the berries, he was obliged to bend over so as to tip them into the basket. John’s lower lip quavered; Alexander’s heart pricked with remorse. If only it had not been so hot, he might have held his temper, and John would flash his dimples rather than staring off in the direction of the horizon.

If only he had finished his work in time! It stretched before him, as wide as an ocean. The education of men, and their refined accomplishments. Marriage laws, and property, and couverture. Divorce, and the asylum, and the service, and punishments too terrible to name. Inheritance, and naming, and how they did things in France, and all the rest. He had so much work to do.

John’s lip trembled. The branches shook as he stepped away. There was nothing doing for it now. The damage was already done.

Better to act as if everything was exactly as it should be. ‘There,’ he said, and brushed his purpled hands across the seat of his trousers. The basket was nearly full, and the sun beat down fiercely. His throat was parched. For the past hour all he had thought about was when they would be finished at last and he could join his sister at her table in the shade. And then the writing which he would return to as soon as they departed for their own estate. Only it was so hot, and inside so cool. Perhaps he might have a little lie-down when they finally left. ‘I am sure that is enough for compote.’

John looked dubiously into the basket. It was plenty full, but he wanted to remain there alone with Alexander a little longer. ‘But I thought we were to pick for preserves as well?’

The words floated past, as Alexander was already making for the edge of the lawn. Angelica was sat at a small table under the spreading branches of an ancient yew tree, reading a manual on childbirth with a very displeased expression. Her one hand was laid upon the ninemonth swell of her stomach whilst the other held the book open. Her upper lip curled with disdain at whatever was written there on the page. It is, as everybody knows, a bloody awful business. There is a reason we have so many physicians. 

‘Can it be as bad as all that?’ asked Alexander, after he had helped himself to lemon squash and tipped it greedily down his throat. He licked his lips, tasted sour commingled with sweet, and drank deeply again.

Angelica’s eyes widened. Her fine mouth turned down in a small frown. John was out of hearing range, she saw with a glance in his direction. Entangled with the blackberry brambles, utterly determined to fill the basket to the very brim. They were very much by themselves.

‘I confess, Alexander,’ and here she closed the book and placed it face down upon the table, as if she did not want to risk it looking back at her, and pushed it fractionally away, ‘the whole business frightens me immensely.’

He pulled out a lawn chair and joined her at table. He refilled his glass from the pitcher, where it decanted with a sound like a splashing spring after the rain. Candidly he spoke, before drinking again, ‘Come now, Angelica. I have never known you to be frightened of anything, except perhaps centipedes. Do you remember the time when—’

‘Yes,’ she said, cutting off his words with a shudder, ‘yes of course I remember. It haunts me to this day. Though I still do not know how you managed to get in my room to leave it there.’

Alexander stared off in the direction of the house, which loomed large in the afternoon sun. His chambers would be welcoming, cool with the heavy curtains drawn. Regarding Angelica and the centipede, he thought it best not to tell her that he had been picking locks expertly since his childhood. Her room was as familiar to him as his own; he had read her private diary on countless occasions. Instead he said with dismay, looking down at the full china plate, ‘Did you not like the biscuits? I ordered the cinnamon especial for you.’

Angelica had been alone with the biscuits long enough for them to tempt her several times, before she thought the better of it. They seemed quite caught round the edges. Now faced with the realization that she might be giving offense, she took one. However, she only looked at it for a long moment before putting it on the side of her plate.

Fear not, intrepid reader, for we have here no cause for alarm, as it is with some women who lose their appetite during their first pregnancy. Then it can be a struggle to assure them enough nutrition for the baby, and they are forced to consume vast quantities of milk and bland porridge to keep up their strength. This was fortunately not the case with Angelica; her appetite had returned steadily enough during the gestational course, and John made sure that her cravings were well met. All the doctors she had seen under her mother’s watchful eye assured her that she was fit to travel to the estate, and John’s dowry had been handsome, and wisely invested, so that she might see a specialist if the county doctor did not suffice. A woman can be lured from town easier than one might suppose, if there is profit to be made from it, and to count Mrs. Angelica Schuyler among her clientele.

Back to the table at the lawn, we find Angelica in an awkward position. She had taken the biscuit merely to be polite and hoped that it would be sufficient to avert offense. But Alexander watched her like a hawk, his eyes tracking the placement of it on the side of her plate, and staring at it with such sad eyes that, owing to the strong emotion radiating from his person, she was at last forced to try it.

It was less sweet than it should have been, and hard. Each lumpen oval had a hint of char about it, as if perhaps they had been forgotten about and left under the heat too long. In the usual course of things, the man making them would spend all his time in the kitchen, watching attentively over whatever he had in the oven, be it a cake, or biscuits, or scones, or small tarts. If he had deviated from this pattern, and rushed off to do something else, such as to hastily scribble a counter-argument he had only just thought up, then the biscuits would indeed catch round the edges.

Angelica cast about for the next line; in fairness she could not pay them a compliment and still keep herself honest. Instead she asked, ‘Whatever do they need with that many legs?’

‘I am sure a scientist could tell you,’ he said, and drank once more. He picked up a biscuit for himself and bit into it, oblivious to the taste. ‘We have one on hand, or near enough. Eliza might know, though she always did miserably in her biology lessons, especially when the topic was a crawly one.’

Angelica laughed, and tried her own. Well, the middle part at least tasted rather nice, once she had picked away the rest. ‘She will know only what John Laurens has told her secondhand, then. Maybe it is for the best that she will practice on people rather than insects.’

Alexander repeated the laugh, for there was no malice in her tone. ‘She will benefit from his assistance immensely, I daresay. Though Eliza is truly too squeamish to be a doctor.’

Here Angelica was required to suppress another uncomfortable shudder, for the book she had just been reading spared nothing in its detail. She would almost have preferred to remain in ignorance until the contractions began, but she pushed the thought from her mind and adopted a lighthearted tone. ‘It is true. The dissections he tried to make her do on frogs met with serious resistance,’ she told him, and took a second biscuit. After picking away the burnt edges she then said in a lowered voice, ‘But, and you must not tell anyone, for Mother would be furious, she has enlisted him to assist her in studying for her examinations.’

‘Why, that is wonderful news!’ exclaimed Alexander, just as John approached the table and laid the basket, now so heaped with berries that they threatened to spill out atop it, and asked, ‘What is?’

Angelica intercepted the question and ignored it. She said, looking at the basket, ‘How marvelous! But do come and sit beside me. You must be very hot after your adventure in the bushes.’ She patted the chair next to hers, affectionately. 

Her husband sat beside her, and showed her how much he had picked. The sun shone overhead and then it slanted low in the sky, and they stayed the whole afternoon and well into the evening. Adrienne looked in at the dinner table with curiousity but rudely refused to join them. When at last they had gone, and the plates had been scraped and the pots left to soak, Alexander was too exhausted to even pour a bath. He stripped off his shoes and removed his jacket, with every promise to himself that he would only lie down for a moment. Merely to rest his eyes. He had so much to do, so much work to do.

Alexander managed to compose one good sentence in his mind before he fell fast asleep atop his covers. When he woke in the middle of the night with a start and a shriek, then the upstairs window of Mount Vernon blazed as bright as day from the tremendous quantity of candles he was required to burn in order to work through the night.


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Parched Summer — Natural Rights of Man — A Year without Kissing — Yule at Mount Vernon_

Summer unfurled like a brown carpet across the land, hotter and drier than any in recent memory. This boded poorly for the farmers who tended it, and the merchants who sold the goods at market. Nobody was quite sure who was to blame for such widespread ill-fortune, but everybody was quite certain that someone should bear the brunt of condemnation for its cause.

Sunday pulpits rang with condemnations of sinful pride. Hearts were scoured, minds put to the test, souls examined and cross-examined until at last the populace came to understand that the land was herself protesting a disruption in the natural order of things. Like an illness that needed to be set right, until men’s blatant attempts to rise above their stations were quelled then there would be neither peace nor, importantly, rain. And as rain grew the crops that fed the horses who carried the men into battle against the French, then rain there must be.

We have examined the press and the arguments therein, and will dwell but a little longer upon them as they relate to the passing of the seasons, and the change in public opinion. Examples and illustrations turned to argument, and argument to invective, and invective to demands for clear and present action; namely, reform.

For as God’s creatures, men were deserving of natural rights — if not on the same level as women, then at least a partial suite might be offered in recompense for their lowered station. Access to education was the chief among these, integrated where possible, but other suggestions had been made to the effect that men were entitled to own land, and to trade in the markets, and keep their own purses — not subject to the caprice of a spendthrift mother or wife. And more outrageous still, it had been suggested that they be allotted the right to decide whom and when they might marry. Even the power of refusal, to tell a woman no and to remain an eternal bachelor!

Granted, the men and the loudest voices were mostly Alexander, and the demands chiefly his own. But some chimed in, voices which did not originate in Mount Vernon. He had his suspicions, but they were but block print upon the page. They agreed with him on all points, or disagreed on a particular, proffered a suggestion for the execution of his plans. Men, everywhere, tucked away in all corners of the land. Writing, thinking: longing to be free! Behind the words stood persons whom he wished very much to count among his friends. How he longed to debate in the presence of men like himself, to speak freely on the issues of the day and to speculate upon the future!

Back to agriculture as it reflects upon our nation, then summer was a trying time indeed. Farmers grumbled as the parched land refused to yield enough crops for export. Emergency measures were declared; the cost for a bushel of wheat soared. Sugar from the Indies was once again a rare delicacy, and the summer passed without the needful pleasure of cooling ices, syllabubs, and sorbets. The women were irritable, their men afraid to invoke their wroth, especially when the moon waxed full. Everybody was relieved, as a matter of fact blessedly grateful, when new sources of production and trade routes opened just in time for the Christmas holidays.

Alexander was amongst those who was happy to see sugar return to his table, and perhaps went a bit overboard with the quantity of pies, cakes, trifles, custards, syllabubs, jellies, and biscuits that he had prepared for their dinner.

Twelve were expected. These were the three in residence at Mount Vernon: himself, Adrienne, who had shot and dressed four wild turkeys along with a giant quantity of guinea fowl (all thin, owing to the summer drought), Gilbert, who particularly liked the crackers with their loud popping sounds and the silly paper crowns (though he disliked monarchy on principle). Their neighbours and family the Schuylers: Angelica, who could not seem to keep weight on no matter how much she ate, John, for whom the opposite was true, and thus made Alexander’s constant revisions to the proposed Christmas menu a real torture to hear, and the baby, whom they called Philip, who was of course too young to worry about his weight. An invitation was naturally extended to Mrs. and Mr. Church, who also resided near enough to be considered neighbours, and whom by dint of association with their son also could be numbered amongst the family.

Eight, in all, and that would have been plenty. Alexander was a gracious host but an inexperienced one, and food for eight already taxed his repertoire to the limit. However as it turned out, dear Mr. Madison had been faring so poorly, what with his ill health. By Yule he was too far enfeebled to host the kind of party his beloved Dolley would have wanted, and she was hardly the type of woman who would have been happy to sit cosily at home with only her closest kin. The holiday wanted going to a party, and Alexander was too kind to say no to the suggestion when Angelica put it to him. Mrs. Madison would be there and expected jollity to boot, as did her boy Payne, who was to be counted amongst the party. A bachelor was always in need of a similarly eligible lady, so a Ms. Greta Bunce who hailed from Flatford Mill was pressed into service. They numbered one person for each of the the twelve days of Christmas, and, it would seem, a different pudding for each as well. All that was missing was George.

Alexander had been married for two Christmases now, and he had been without his husband on each. This year he was at least better prepared with regards to giving gifts, and sent a parcel off to the east containing a pair of very lumpy woolen socks, which he had knitted himself, and a tin of very hard toffees, which he had also made himself. 

George entered his thoughts quite often, and though Alexander was no longer lonely, precisely, he spoke to his husband as if he were there. So he might seek George's opinion on whether they should have beef or lamb for supper (Adrienne preferred beef, and so beef it was), and if the writings of Rousseau were overrated (George had no opinion on this), and what he would be giving to Alexander come Christmas morning (he hoped for a new pen, one of the nib style that was all the rage in France). 

Still, it would have been wonderful to wake up in George's arms before he had to get up to stoke the fires, and to bed down with his warm frame at night. And in between, under every sprig of mistletoe, he would endeavour to be kissed. 

It had been so long since he had been kissed that he nearly forgot what it was like. Was George's mouth dry or damp? Did he linger or press fluttery lips against Alexander's own? And did he kiss elsewhere, Alexander's hand, or his neck, or had he simply imagined all that? 

 

~*~

 

A fire crackled in the hall on Christmas morning. Wind blew cold outside, but inside was snug and smelt of cloves and nutmeg. Alexander had been preoccupied with the puddings, along with the rest of the dinner. His guests would be arriving very soon, and he wished for everything to be perfect. It was all just as it should be, save the absence of an evergreen bough above the mantlepiece. Try as he might, he simply could not make it stay where it was put.

‘Bother!’ he exclaimed, as it slithered once more down from its precarious position. Alexander caught it just in the nick of time, though at some detriment to his balance, as he was himself perched precariously upon a footstool. Owing to his smallish stature he was forced to stand on his very tiptoes so as to be able to reach the tall ledge. Heights did not frighten him, but wobbling was altogether unpleasant. In short he was torn between giving up entirely, which would have been tantamount to failure, or asking for assistance from a lady who was taller than he.

 _‘Tu vas tomber,’_ remarked Adrienne as she entered the hall in her stockinged feet, padding in as quiet as a cat. Her boots had been left by the entranceway, though they were still caked with snow. Outside, there were deep footprints where she had sunk through the frozen crust to the softer ground beneath. She wished to stir up the fire, but presently hung back as Alexander was very close to the flame. It was good to be out of the wind, all told. However she could do with a drink.

Though he had been thinking of Adrienne at that moment, he had not expected her, and in fact her strong voice unbalanced him. It was a voice meant to carry over field and stream, to cry ho and tally, to hunt fox and direct men into battle. For a terrifying moment he wobbled on the stool. The world rocked and shimmered, and then was still once more. Alexander let out the breath he had been holding in his chest and reached forward again, hands as steady as he could make them. He could sense Adrienne behind him, arms folded across her chest as she scrutinized the scene. It would be done, he would do it himself, without asking for assistance. He could do. He must.

One foot of the stool raised up and landed on the stone floor; Alexander gritted his teeth, and moved himself forward an inch, two inches. Adrienne grew bored with the increments. She flopped onto a chair and took out her tobacco pouch. After a few moments spent watching him struggle with the garland, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips, she at last put to him the idea that he might be in need of assistance. _‘As-tu besoin d'aide?’_

‘I have it!’ he declared, a ringing note of triumph in his voice. He had spoken too soon: it slid down once more, and he barely caught the tail of the thing, while it whipped around like a large and angry snake. Several misguided attempts later, he managed at last to catch the garland’s loose end behind a large silver candlestick, and there it remained while he gripped the edge of the mantlepiece to catch his breath. Then, very carefully, he turned himself about. With bent knees he lowered himself closer to his centre of gravity, and then extricated himself from a very undignified squat, and at last managed to find himself on solid ground once more.

Taking a step back, he surveyed his handiwork. Arms akimbo, he tilted his head owlishly. From behind a blue cloud of smoke Adrienne said, _‘C'est pas mal.’_

Inside he felt a warm buzzing in his chest. The house was so snug and toasty, and soon would be filled with people, light, and laughter. Alexander absolutely adored Christmas. All the traditions so foreign to him from the land of his birth had been adopted gleefully, to his own pleasant surprise, once he had a household to call his own. Adrienne had no preferences, and so he was free to do as he pleased. Mistletoe with its frost-white berries hung from every door and archway. Holly boughs and branches clustered in bowls and on window ledges, as artful as Alexander could make them. It was so snug. 

‘Yes,’ he agreed, as he sat down beside her. ‘It’s not bad, is it?’


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Gathering of Friends — Pertaining to the Tending of Infants — Snowfall — Under the Mistletoe_

The knocker sounded four times: once for the Churches, again for the Madisons, and then for Ms. Bunce, windblown but smiling, and lastly for Angelica and John, who had been delayed out of concern for little Philip.

‘You must forgive us,’ said Angelica, as she unwrapped her scarf from around her hat and then permitted Alexander to remove her coat, ‘Only Philip has just recovered from a cold, and John did fret so about taking him out in the snow.’

‘I merely thought that you needed another layer,’ John said quietly to the chubby baby in his arms, who resembled nothing so much as a stocking stuffed with cotton wool, so enveloped was he in clothing. Angelica plucked the baby from his arms and went to show him off. John watched her go with suspicion, as he did not yet quite trust her instincts. She adored the approbation which attached to bearing a baby around, and the gloating that went with it, but the duties of nurse were anathema to her.  
As for her husband, so very young, and altogether exhausted: — fatherhood had taken a toll on him, and though his eyes were still warm and bright, he was constantly vexed, not to mention more tired than he had ever been in his life. The thrill that accompanies the arrival of a new baby evaporates quickly, and even the most paternal man will find his patience taxed by the combination of sheer terror and utter tedium that comes with raising a child.

‘But your mother thought it silly to worry,’ he muttered to Angelica’s retreating back as she crossed into the hall and displayed the child to the assembled guests, who cooed and made appropriate noises. He followed without thinking, so overburdened was he that it did not occur to him that he was being rude.

‘John,’ said Alexander, with a hand laid gentle upon his arm, ‘may I take your coat?’

He started, and then blurted out, ‘Oh! Yes, of course.’

Alexander flashed the smile that caused hearts to flutter and said, ‘It’s quite all right. Come, let us get you a drink.’

 

~*~

 

From his position at Adrienne’s right hand, Alexander scanned the length of his dining table, and allowed his eyes to rest on the persons there assembled. The heir to Mount Vernon, and her lover seated at her left elbow, for a Marquis outshone them all with regards to rank. Nearer the bottom of the table, young Payne was engrossed in quiet conversation with Ms. Bunce, and had paid sole attention to her almost to the point of rudeness with everybody else. The young man was always giving offense in some manner or other, and so we will call the introduction a success, as it flattered the lady in question quite heavily. Mrs. Madison, Mrs. Church, and Mrs. Schuyler were all clustered near one another, and they talked politics in the most superficial manner possible. It was a holiday, after all, and there were gentlemen present.

A chair remained empty, at the opposite end of the table. Alexander wondered to himself when he was if it might be bad luck, to set a place for someone who was not there. And so all through dinner, when he should have been the happiest, his eyes nevertheless fell on the place where George should have sat, and was not, and it seemed would never be. Every request he made for George to ask for a bit of leave had been rebuffed. Gently, of course, but denied nonetheless. The blockade was uncertain; the warships too important to carry a poor general between home and the battlefield. Even if it was Christmas. 

But there was so much to do! So occupied was he directing the fetching and carrying, and serving and passing, not to mention steering the conversation here and there that he soon laid George aside, as a memory to be resurrected later, when the house again passed into stillness. 

Poor John was the subject of intense scrutiny, as a young father, and was peppered with liberal questions from all sides, which he received with as much grace as he could muster.

‘Do you wrap him at night?’ asked Mr. Church, as he poured more wine for the ladies, and then splashed but a bit into his glass. It was a holiday, but he did wish to partake of at least one of the puddings he had seen on the sideboard, and so felt compelled to exercise some restraint with his alcohol.

‘No!’ said Mr. Madison, and banged his fist enthusiastically on the table. Clearly this was a matter on which he held strong opinions. The motion set him coughing, and the company waited for this to subside before he continued. ‘Absolutely not! Do not listen to such nonsense. He must be free to move as he likes while he sleeps, otherwise he will cry the night away and you will never know a moment’s peace.’

‘Untrue,’ countered Mr. Church, and gestured to his son at the other side of the table. ‘Why, John was swaddled until he was nearly a year old, and I cannot see it did him any lasting harm. Did it?' 

John looked nervously between the two men and refrained from making an answer. He was far too well-meaning to be caught in such a tempest. 

‘Do not listen to your father,’ said Mr. Madison down the table to John, ‘I am sure you turned out well enough, but the consensus amongst physicians nowadays is to leave the child untethered.’

‘And what if he cries?’ asked Mr. Church, ‘what then?’

‘Why, let him cry!’ rebuked Mr. Madison. ‘He must learn soon enough that the world will not coddle him, why should his father do such a thing?’

Seeing the desperate look John flashed him, Alexander offered his own measured opinion on the matter, which was a mere deflection, and no contribution at all. ‘I am sure whatever John decides will be the correct decision. But come, have you tried the trifle yet? The sherry was very hard to get hold of, but Mademoiselle de Noailles seems to be quite a magician when it comes to procurement.’

 

~*~

 

Fresh snow began to fall shortly after the Madisons departed, blanketing the old gray stuff with a new dusting of white. Alexander stood before the window and watched it as it fell, trapped between a memory and the present moment. How old had he been the first time he saw snow? He must have been just shy of his fifteenth birthday when he saw it properly. Yes, that would have been it, if you did not count the flat muddy flakes that fell, occasionally, during the mild Monmouth winters.

The memory enfolded him; it seemed to be playing out in the forecourt, as he watched his younger self. Yes, he remembered the first time he felt sleet against his face, but that was another occasion. The cold had been one matter, and bearable in its way, but the freezing rain was altogether worse. 

Yes, there it was. He was fifteen years old, for that was the year Angelica outgrew her dark red coat, and it had been reworked into a cloak for him, the inside lined with soft felted wool. The colour was faded but at least the hems were not shabby yet, though he did tend to trip over them when it was muddy.

Fifteen before he saw snow, not counting the muddy flakes that fell like rain during the Welsh winters. They had gone to London to visit Lady Catherine in a large rented carriage. She had promised her husband a week’s worth of the capitol’s entertainments, and on the Friday evening they were all taken out to a rented box. He and Aaron fought over the glasses, and Eliza hushed them both, and Angelica cried a little, and Philip a great deal. Lady Catherine was stony-faced during the entertainment, her mind elsewhere as always, but when they exited the theatre, it was snowing. Alexander’s eyes had lit up with such confusion at seeing it, and feeling the little white specks land on his upturned face, he laughed, and even Lady Catherine was touched by his delight. She bought him a packet of roast chestnuts, which he pressed beneath his cloak the whole of the carriage ride back to St. James’ and refused to share or even open, the warmth of them suffusing his whole body. Like Nevis; home.

Snow fell in the forecourt of Mount Vernon, and Alexander watched it fall with a heavy heart. Winter is the very worst time to be alone and feel lonely, and out of every day, Christmas is the worst of them all. His thoughts were very sullen, his heart heavy. Everybody he had ever loved was dead, departed, or so far away that they might as well be. For the first time in many weeks, he thought of his mother. A woman who had shunned her family and married for love, and what had love ever given her, but purple rings around her eyes and nights in the poor house? What mattered then? 

His thoughts were bitter, so it was just as well that they were interrupted by John entering the room with Philip in his arms. He was tired, as new fathers always are, but gracious and cordial nonetheless. His sweetness was a tonic to grief, especially when he paid Alexander a compliment. ‘It was a wonderful party,’ he said. Philip gurgled in agreement as his father patted him on the back. He had been fed, and Angelica fallen back asleep almost at once.

Alexander did not respond immediately, caught in the morass of his memories. A piece of him wished to hunt down his father and ask  _why,_ but he knew in his heart of hearts that no answer would satisfy him. The man might have been good once, for surely he was not born evil but made that way, transformed by circumstance into the person Alexander knew, and despised, and loved, and feared. 

When at last he turned, the baby had himself fallen back asleep. John was framed by the doorway, little Philip in his arms. He looked like a safe harbour. He looked now, Alexander thought, like a place he might call home. When he spoke his voice was full, affectionate. ‘You should go to bed, Alexander,’ he chided, 'you have done enough for one day. Come to bed. It is Christmas.'

The words felt as warm as a West Indian summer, like the sun pressing a kiss against the bridge of his nose. It seemed only fitting that as Alexander passed beneath the mistletoe that he paused — and we will not speculate if it was deliberate or incidental, merely call attention to the fact of the pause itself — and in the interval, the space between walking through the door like a gentleman and standing still like a knave, in that space, John leaned over, before Alexander could think too much to protest, and kissed him.


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Up the Stairs — Into the Bed — Throughout the Night — A New Tomorrow_

By the time morning shed cold light upon the new carpet of snow, Alexander had cycled through an entire dictionary’s worth of sentiments.

Initially, he was gladdened by the kiss. It was, as kisses go, a rather nice one, with all the correct applications of appendages and the appropriate amount of wetness. It did not necessarily leave Alexander breathless, rumpled, or weak in the knees, but it made him feel nice, and warm despite the frigid weather, and less lonely altogether.

As has already been established, Alexander very much enjoyed being kissed. If George had still been in residence then it is safe to say it would have become a frequent pastime between the two. However as he had only to date kissed the man he had married, and that had taken place so utterly long ago — sixteen month by the church calendar, a few more by the lunar one — that it had passed from novelty to bleached-bone memory in the span of a short time. He was hungry for affection in only the way that a young sequestered man can be; naturally, his feelings found an object in a most intimate friend, as a flower will turn its face to the sun. We seek warmth where we may find it, despite the bonds of matrimony. It is unkind, to be sure, but life is long and love may be short: romance certainly is. The sentiment between John and Alexander was that of boys, for even grown men are but children at heart. They are simply creatures who readily mistake fondness for passion, so eager are they to be the object of another’s love and a comfort in her bed.

(Women, it shames us to say, have done little to mitigate this natural inclination, but have rather encouraged its development. If one were to turn a critical eye to the practice, then we might even speculate that the institution of marriage itself, between a woman and her men, demands that they compete at all times for her favour. Any single woman is naturally herself blameless: for she cannot help it if her appetites emerge at such a point when her first husband’s decline. But to make a sport of young men, as if they were the first spring fawns, and the ladies the foxhounds, horses, and bayonets all rolled into one — it leaves a sour taste in the mouth.)

To return to the subject at hand, we demand fidelity from a husband, old or young, first or new, father or no. A flirtation can be borne well enough, might even be amusing to the more tolerant among us, but a true dalliance? Adultery? The consequences far outweigh what can only ever be a momentary diversion. A man might well suffer in person as well as reputation. Barred from visits to town if his character proves him untrustworthy; a starker punishment sees him exiled permanently to the estate at his wife’s behest; and beyond that we will say no more.

Now being but a man, and an absent one at that, Mr. Washington was in no position to demand faithfulness. Mademoiselle de Noailles should have set an example by her own character, but as should be plain by now, her moral compass was sadly askew. By all accounts she was a rake, a gambler, and an adventurer, hardly the sort of person to ensure probity when she could barely be bothered to dress herself correctly for company. Tonight she had been wearing a suit of velvet, brown as fine cocoa, and an ivory neckcloth, hastily tied. Needless to say, this apparel would be the subject of much conversation later on. A woman in trousers? Whatever for? 

But the kiss! For as long as it took Alexander to traverse the first five stairs, he was buoyed aloft by the fact of the kiss. How lovely to be young and kissable! Though, of course, it must never happen again. Alexander paused then with the realization that the onus would lay upon his shoulders: to rebuff his young admirer and to quash these sentiments in the bud. John would be crushed, naturally. 

That pleasant feeling began to fade with every step upwards until between the eighth and eleventh risers, Alexander began to turn attention to his own culpability. Why, the audacity of them both. Perhaps, upon reflection, the kiss would turn out to be not the best turning of events. John was still very young. He knew so little about the world. And he was married — to Angelica, no less, for heaven’s sake, his sister in all but blood, and John every inch the respectable brother-in-law — and was by all counts a father now, and must have been exhausted himself, and flesh and blood, too — for everybody knows that new mothers have very little energy for marital affection. Well. It was a moment’s foolishness, no more.

He paused on the landing, as if the decision whether or not to tell should be made before he bed down for the night. It came to him at once: George must never know. This was not on account of his character, which was blameless and entirely without stain. He had never, save when he had been asked outright in the privacy of their shared rooms, ever shown the slightest hint of displeasure. He was so kind and forgiving — so Christian and charitable — so honourable and benevolent — that were Alexander to breathe a word of what had taken place — then his forgiveness was an utterly foregone conclusion. In that case, it seemed a waste to inconvenience him with the facts.

This decided, he entered his rooms.

(Since we saw them last they had been sumptuously decorated in such a way that radiated expense but actually cost very little. Whether they demonstrated _bon goût_ we will allow the reader to speculate upon herself.)

Our Alexander had discovered in himself a knack for trade not merely on the mercantile exchanges, but with the women who run furniture shops as well. It took time to present himself accordingly, and so if a visit to a dealer or draper was taking place, then he might linger over his toilet. The night before he would curl his lovely hair with papers or rags, and brush it before the mirror until it shone like midnight. The day of the appointment he would choose his snuggest velvet breeches, filmy white stockings, shoes a little higher than they absolutely needed to be for practical comfort, and he would take the carriage rather than riding out plain.

Much to his dismay, the prettier and stupider he pretended to be, the nicer he was treated by all and sundry. This realization was more unwelcome than it was shocking, for he had long suspected that this was the case. Even as a married man (though not, one supposes, properly married according to all but the most liberal-minded of women — for how could it count as a marriage without a woman at the head?). Alexander’s change in station, from poor bachelor to moderately situated to...actually quite rich, though mostly in stocks rather than liquid capital...but...in any case: money had been amassed, earned, and reinvested sensibly with the occasional gamble that paid off handsomely.

As the snow continued to fall, he took off his jacket and waistcoat. With the undoing of every mother-of-pearl button he felt his body return to its natural shape, and with it, his agitation dissipated. It would be perfectly fine. He would simply pretend it had never happened and he and John would continue as before, as friends. Good friends. Bosom friends, even.

Alexander draped his clothes over the back of his chair and undid his queue. His reflection looked back at him as he applied the boar bristle brush to his hair. _For shame,_ it seemed to be saying. _Are you so selfish as all that? Is nothing sacred?_

‘Oh, do be quiet!’ he muttered to the mirror image of himself. ‘I have done nothing wrong, do you hear me?’ This was not so strange, given that Alexander had a habit of speaking aloud when he was alone, but upon reflection he thought himself silly, to be flustered by such a little thing, and so dressed in his nightgown and brought himself to bed with a fresh candle and his diary.

Words spilled upon the page in a veritable cascade of feeling. Sleep was delayed as Alexander wrote it all down, in this private place meant for him and him alone. His fondness for John, his longing for George all overshadowed the festivities. He dwelt at some length on an improper thought which had occurred to him whilst brushing his hair and had made his reflection blush. Then that resolved in the manner of unattached men everywhere, he snuggled himself beneath the bedclothes and slept a sleep white and discomfited.

Yet in the middle of the night he woke with a start, agitated and sweaty all over. Usually when he could not find rest he turned his thoughts to George, imagining him in the bed with him. His wide hands softly stroking Alexander’s back as he was held in strong arms, his breath becoming smooth and even once more. He was loved, he was safe. But, oh, wretched thing! George’s kind smile blurred into John’s tender, fawning one, and the thoughts which had for so long soothed him provided no rest at all.

Come morning Alexander’s head was all a-muddle, but he could not spare a moment to sulk. Before dawn broke he was on his feet and preparing the porridge for the guests who had spent the night. Very nice porridge it was, too, from the Highlands, and cooked slow over a low fire with the tiniest bit of salt. A Scotswoman would say that was all that was needed for garnish, the nutty flavour of the grain itself too pure to sully, but Alexander did love to gild the lily, and so along with the porridge was served butter molded into little curls, chilled in a dish of their own ice at the centre of the heavy oaken table, and sweet blackberry jam that John and Alexander had put up in the summertime, and thick pouring cream, and golden honey, and so many other things besides that the houseguests — who had stuffed themselves silly the evening before, as one does when one is a guest and it is Christmas — quailed a bit at the sight: a feast fit for a queen’s day.

‘Good morning!’ chirped Alexander to a sleepy Angelica, as he held up the matching silver carafes (bought at auction for a very dear price). ‘Would you prefer coffee or tea this morning? And would you like an egg? I am more than happy to make you one, or anything else you might wish to have. I admit that I have still not mastered the art of poaching — eggs are such bothersome things, are they not? So tricky, very tricky indeed. But I can do a serviceable fried egg, if you would like, or scrambled. I have boiled two dozen already, but it is no trouble to make more.’

Angelica sat down and stared at the edible mountain which lay before her, which included the aforementioned bowl of boiled eggs. Another seemed unnecessary, but if Alexander wanted to prove he could make one, then it would be unkind to refuse. Also it would stop him from babbling, which he continued to do as he bustled about. Angelica had always enjoyed mornings, for once her eyes opened she was wide awake, but having a baby had damped down her enthusiasm for the hour somewhat. Philip woke even earlier than she did, and when the baby cried out, John woke to see to him, and then she was required to feed him, and from then on the little threesome was awake until Philip’s nap after lunch.

Poor Angelica. She wished at that precise moment for nothing more than a soup tureen full of tea and absolutely no conversation to take place within five miles of where she presently sat.

While the latter was impossible, she could at least begin to make headway on the former. ‘I think,’ she yawned into a delicate fist, and surveyed the landscape once more. We may compare her situation here to that of an alpine climber who has vaingloriously declared she will surmount a tall peak in the name of queen and country, but has vastly underestimated its true scale. But climb she must, and so Angelica said, ‘I will have coffee, please. I will need it today, I think.’

Alexander poured it for her, and then John came in, and he and Alexander exchanged a look but merely the most cursory of good mornings. He was roused gently with tea, and for the baby there was neither, and for Mrs. Church when she arrived at table a very milky concoction that only a fool would class as coffee, and for Mr. Church, last in — as he had been struggling with the fit of his breeches owing to the excesses of the night prior — he took only a cup of hot water with a slice of lemon, and the plainest and smallest dish of that lovely porridge.


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Strained Farewell — At Home for the Season — A Man of Ill Repute — Invitations are Issued_

His visitors left for home straightaway on Boxing Day, pausing only to take a bit of dry biscuit for the journey to River Grove, though they were not all blessed with equal attention. Alexander embraced Angelica and kissed baby Philip atop his downy head, but owing to his stupid, stubborn pride he refused to so much as glance in John’s direction. Teeth clenched together, Alexander smiled but steadfastly looked the other way, as if something very interesting were happening in the direction of the yew walk and he needed to examine it. Inasmuch as John was wounded by this aversion, which of course he was, being a sensitive soul, then his mien did not reflect it. He merely passed the baby to his wife and allowed himself to be helped into the carriage by the coachman, and after the door closed, placed a parental hand atop Philip’s chubby little one so as to make the baby wave farewell to his uncle Alexander. The hurt would come to a head later when he would weep alone in his chambers, mouth filled to the brim with bitter tears. 

January gusted in on legs blue with cold and the world seemed a bit tighter, grayer, since the departure of his friends, but that was due in part to the inevitable lull between the end of Twelfth Night and the onset of the Season. One always wishes for society after the depths of the winter freeze, but Alexander had resolved to stay put. What need had he for glitter, parties, or fashion? Town was but a five day journey but it might well have been an age with all he had to accomplish. Amongst everything else, he fully intended to speak out more strongly against the war, and in doing so hoped that he might sway public opinion enough to bring his husband home from the front lines.

Oh, but town was lovely this time of year. Halls glistened with ornament; handsome young men dripped with decoration: peacocks paraded about by their parents in search of an eligible match. Fortunes and lack thereof were commented on behind daintily spread fans and over the click of billiards tables. Hands were inspected, fortunes told, teeth examined — and at the end of it all, come spring and fortunate summer, those same handsome young men were married off to young women of good station, or older women with fortunes, provided they were lucky. The less attractive among them might (should Providence will it) find themselves paired with a plain young lady who had also failed to make a match several years running, or whose mother was in a hurry to expedite her own second marriage. Failing that there was always the chance to try one’s luck again in the autumn. And so finery was stowed and jewels polished, and French lessons ramped up during the heat of the summer, and matriarchs from Somerset to Sheffield resolved that next year would be better and their sons would be married off by the following Easter.

While still in his prime marriageable season, Alexander had been similarly put on display by Lady Catherine and found wanting by dozens of potential mothers-in-law. Early on he showed promise, with his dark shining eyes that sparkled with wit and his fine, narrow teeth. His intelligence might have been tamped down enough to see him married off, would he had been but quiet for two minutes at a stretch. But he refused to compromise; he parried with any lady who dared engage his attention for the length of a dance. A few girls found him charming, despite their mothers' best efforts to the contrary, but they were quickly convinced otherwise. No fortune! No consequence! And insubordinate, to boot! 

But home, and love even, had happened in their own way, and he rested easy now for he had made his match, unconventional though it had been. It would have been lovely to see friends and to converge upon the capitol, but whomever would he dance with now? 

Thus our dear Alexander bent his neck to his work. He had much to say, even more to write down. Arguments had flown above his head like paper pigeons over the holidays; and he must now take steady aim and shoot them down.

Yet his output slowed like sticky treacle caught in the jar. As an optimist he woke each morning with the best of intentions — yes, _this_ was to be the day in which he would rebut and refute Mrs. H.’s ridiculous argument about men and musical instruments — she could hardly argue with his diagrams showing that the harpsichord led to asthma and overall feebleness of the mind — and yet as soon as his backside landed in the chair Alexander would be seized with the notion that some vital task in another part of the house demanded his attention at precisely that moment. Forgotten corners of the larder had never been more clean.

Adrienne spent the majority of her time in the gun room, where it was quiet, counting out bullets and polishing her pistols.

In this way, time passed. John wrote and Alexander failed to reply. He wrote again, and again so that by the end of the month he had dropped hints so thick they could form a second carpet next to Alexander’s now-abandoned writing table. He was not at the desk for he was churning butter; boiling Seville oranges for bitter marmalade; scouring the inside of the oven with sand; shortening a jacket and then, upon reflection, letting it back down to its original length.

The ink dried and congealed in the pot.

However, as the days lengthened into a February slightly less dismal than that month tended to be (that is to say, still very bleak indeed) and rounded the bend into March, Alexander found himself wishing for his friend’s companionship. Men need other men, it is true, and he remembered it had been pleasant to sew together. John was always generous with his assistance — pointing out the dropped stitches without ever raising his voice or growing cross, which would only have put Alexander off the whole endeavour entirely. Much in the same manner he found it good to have a friend in the kitchen, side by side and elbows-deep in flour as Alexander at last began to master _pâte brisée_  by using a motion, which John showed him. It was all in the action of the wrist.

Beneath his hands the cool, smooth dough began to take shape. He patted it into a disk and covered it with a cloth, then went to wash his hands in the basin. A scheme began to coalesce. It was mulled over while he went about his routine, that day, and the next, and the next. He swept the stone floors — beat the rugs — set bread to proof — wrote the receipts from the butchers and the greengrocers into his ledger and checked his sums three separate times — polished the silver — scrubbed the washbasin — peeled potatoes for soup and set leeks to soak to free them from their grit. Unfinished pages curled like leaves yellowing in the autumn sunshine.

He took himself off to the pub with the intention of working there, but it was too easy to fall into conversation with the men who frequented the place in daylight hours, whom Alexander had audaciously befriended. He had asked one, a Mr. Tyler, after a few drinks, if he wore kohl round his eyes or if they were naturally so dark, and Mr. Tyler (who had trained as an actor, about which we will say no more) had laughed merrily and answered that it was a bit of each, then permitted Alexander to stand him another round. 

Provided that he was not too cross from being ignored, he decided that evening as he mounted the steps carefully, then regaining John’s company would be as easy as responding in the affirmative to the invitations which littered his floor. It would be best if they were not alone together. He could demand that Philip be present, for he did enjoy seeing his nephew though he was very shabby a conversationalist. Alexander well enjoyed a verbal spar in which he played devil and angel both. He would walk back and forth in front of the windows with the child, rocking him ever so slightly by the motion. Baby Philip seemed cheerful enough, though one can not always tell with an infant. Nevertheless he gurgled, stuck his fist in his mouth and drooled profusely and politely whenever Alexander made a striking point against his imaginary opponents.

But Philip had been cradled in John’s arms when they met beneath the mistletoe and had not proven the deterrent which one would have thought — though perhaps it was because he was asleep and thus not drooling too badly at the time. Suffice it to say, the situation demanded more in the way of a chaperon than a baby could provide

Alexander burped into his hand. It tasted of shandy. Then at once resolved in the way only a drunk person can be he sat down at the lonesome desk and set to composing a letter straightaway. Before he had time to regret the choice to do so, he made seven identical copies with only the names changed — men in the neighborhood, mostly, though a few resided at some distance and would have to be lodged at the inn should they pay him the honour of a visit — and then he wrote at last, to John.

 

_Mount Vernon, Suffolk_

_12 February 18---_

 

_My dearest, John —_

 

— and then, almost as if someone had dashed his head into a bucket of frigid water — he sobered up at once when realizing the implied damage that this misplaced comma could do. With a gasp of relief, he crossed it out, pulled out a clean sheet, and started afresh.

 

_Mount Vernon, Suffolk_

_12 February 18---_

 

_My dearest John —_

_I have been remiss in answering your correspondence, and I heartily beg your forgiveness for having delayed so long in doing so. The past few weeks have been so filled with purposeful activity that I have scarce had a moment to catch my breath. But I confess that my aversion to paying you the compliment of a return letter has been motivated by my concern for your own health and happiness. I fear you overtax yourself. Little Philip must strain you unduly; I cannot imagine maintaining a household besides. Certainly I am shattered at the end of the day and I do not have your added responsibilities. Nor am I awakened some dozen times throughout the night by the wail of a child._

_However, I wish to respond to your kind invitations and repay them with one of my own. If you are able and see fit to do so, it would not trouble your to entrust Philip to his grandfather for a time. Come for Shrove Tuesday and do stop the night. I will never get through all the pancakes on my own otherwise. I shall save the last jar of blackberries in anticipation of your arrival. Do promise me you will come, I will be all agitated until I have your response in the affirmative._

 

 _Until then I remain,_  
_Your most humble and obedient servant, &tc,_  
_— Alexander Hamilton (Washington)_

 

This completed, Alexander pressed the wax into each piece of trifold, and stared at the pile a long moment. They looked very ordinary lying there on the desk. One may dash off a letter at a moment's notice, reader, the repercussions of which may only become clear much further down the line. They may lead to a proposal, an investment, a change in moral attitudes. These letters would not change Alexander's life so much as they would History writ large but of course he did not know that at the time. Nobody could have known. 


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _On Social Change — Ten Exceptional Men, and a Woman — John and Alexander — The Post Comes to Mount Vernon_

~*~

 

Parties punctuate the social calendar, and on this chilly February afternoon yet another was underway. The men Alexander had invited some weeks ago were there assembled in a forthright spirit, gleeful and greedy to find that others like them existed. It is a wonderful thing to realize that you are less alone than once you thought.

But before we enter into these warm rooms and are subsumed in joyful noise, let us turn to one side, reader, and pose the question —

What does a revolution sound like?

A mere generation ago a massacre masquerading as revolution clanged through Parisian streets. Its sounds soared up to the chimney-pots: knitting needles clanking together, a bloodthirsty roar, the metallic slice of a blade through flesh. Other times, different places, it rings shrill with the sound of declamation, followed swiftly by bootsteps, and a blood-curdling scream or hundred.

Our country is peaceable; our revolutions sound faintly.

But were you to step in and lean against the cold stone wall, an ear pressed tentatively to the frozen glass for as long as you can stand it, then you might well hear it.

(It is seven sets of excited footsteps crunching up a gravel drive, seven bouts of a brass knocker rapping against the door.)

(It is the swishing sound a needle makes as it is pulled through stiff-backed piece of cloth, quietly susurrating as it is driven through one side and out the other.)

(It is a poker stirring up the embers from a red-hot fireplace, and an argument, and an inkpot being uncapped.)

(It is the gentle sizzle of butter melting in a pan.)

 

~*~

 

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Be careful or you will burn it!’ exclaimed the square-jawed young gentleman to the older bespectacled one. As he had made hundreds — no, thousands — of pancakes in his lifetime, he knew that butter had to be taken right to the edge of being burnt.

‘It smells quite unusual,’ remarked another man from his position at the table where he was playing cards with Adrienne and Lafayette. She was running short on tobacco and face cards but managing to lose with good humour at least. The man in question was possessed of a young face but wiry white hair, which told two different narratives about his age. His wide nostrils sniffed at the air, now redolent of nuts and wheat toast.

‘There!’ said the one at the stove, as he snatched up the pan just in time before it scorched. He quickly strained it into the waiting bowl and stirred it, vigourously. The young man looked dubious at first, for it seemed that the oily brown mess would never be incorporated. At last it was and his expression soon subsided into contentment and then bliss as he was given the first pancake — always misshapen and lumpy, and so a treat for the cook or his cat — and greedily wolfed it down with bare fingers before it could singe them.

In a seat closest to the fire the oldest man present warmed his feet. He was not a gentleman by birth, but his manners were superior owing to his profession. His journey had not been so difficult in terms of distance, for he hailed from the pleasure-towns in the south, but every piece of him ached, including his pocketbook. He hoped to rely on the kindness of strangers for the return at least as far as Brixton.

The remaining men, of which Alexander was the youngest save one, sat at their needlework some way off from the hearth, as they were well-warmed by their verbal altercations and so did not require much heat. All were married men, the fresh bloom of youth sadly sloughed off, but at least they were all pleasingly skilled in the domestic arts. Why, their houses were spotless, their needlework precise, their pie crusts artfully latticed. It merely goes to show that the way politically-minded men are portrayed in the papers — slovenly and fat, answering the front door in a threadbare dressing gown with unwashed hair, incapable of keeping their houses in order, with starving children wailing at their apron strings — they can in fact be just as typical as anybody else. They may be your own brother, your own child, your own _husband_ even. Snakes in the grass. 

One was speaking to the rest, his voice pitched to show his heightened sense of condescension. ‘—I must say, Mr. Henry, that you make an excellent point, and I am wholly willing to concede that a minister without virtue is more to be feared than any sovereign indifferent to the public good,’ said the man seated on the brocade divan, who was knitting at a furious speed. He was bald as an egg and stooped in the shoulders, and this defect concealed his magnificent height from being recognized to full advantage. 

‘—I will go one step further, Mr. Adams,’ responded the other man without so much as looking up from his embroidery hoop, ‘and put to you the question: — can there ever be a truly _good_ minister?’

‘—I am sure I do not follow,’ said the man called Mr. Adams, politely, and then counted up his stitches to make sure the rows were even, ‘but I will allow it, continue.’

Mr. Henry, for that is what he was called, fairly boomed when he spoke in response, ‘—What I mean, my dear fellow, is this. If a woman comes to power through any means and machinations, then surely it follows that she never deserved it in the first place? For what does it say about her character, that she should be so inclined to seek to expand her dominion beyond the natural household?’

‘—But,’ piped up the third — second husband to a magistrate and so younger than the other conversationalists in body but not in mind, as he was a rather jaded sort of individual, for politics will do that to a man merely by proximity — as he picked out a pattern in silk thread  '—it seems she is limited from the outset, is she not? For can a woman of no means or consequence ever make her way into the upper echelons of power?’

‘—You dare to speak of merit, Mr. Tallmadge,’ thundered Mr. Henry, ‘when everybody knows that women are but one _half_  the total population, yet seem to be allotted the whole of its power and privileges!’

‘—Forgive me,’ interjected Alexander, who was having difficulty with finishing his seam and participating in the conversation at the same time, and so had opted to listen rather than speak, but now set down his needle and said, plainly, ‘— but I agree with the point Mr. Tallmadge makes, or has meant to. Why the very notion of meritocracy must be summarily dismissed out of hand, for it is always somebody’s daughter who fills the shoes of the mother, is it not?’

At this all three men nodded; on this they could reach consensus. It is hard to disagree with a truth, and the truth of the matter is that we excel at dynasties. 

Outside the doorstep, the carriage pulled up and John was helped down. Once again he stood on Alexander’s doorstep and adjusted his clothing to show himself to best attitude. In anticipation of the pancakes from which the day takes its name, he had supped on tapioca and arrowroot since he received Alexander’s letter a fortnight ago, and so was able to wear a suit from before his marriage without too much discomfort, though it did feel rather tight around the middle section.

Barely had the knocked landed once when the door was flung inward as if someone was trying to remove it from its hinges in the process. The handsome young man who was given the first pancake, known to all as Mr. Hale, grinned madly at the figure he found behind the door.  

‘Is Mr. Washington home?’ John asked, for he had been given to believe that he would be meeting Alexander alone, for the intimate conversation they so desperately needed to have. But apparently this was very far from being the case. Eight other heads turned as Mr. Hale reached across the threshold and grabbed hold of John’s forearm, veritably pulling him inside. That accomplished, he shivered theatrically and shouted across the room, ‘Mr. Hamilton! Alexander, you have a visitor!’

‘John!’ breathed Alexander in the direction of the fabric, which was sadly unable to do the job for him. What would Lady Catherine have done in the same situation, he wondered. She would behave as all good Englishwomen do, and pretend nothing at all had ever passed between them. And so he laid aside his needlework with apologies to his visitors, and came forward with outstretched hands.

He talked too much, for he was nervous. What would the men think of John? Could they tell that something had happened to give them cause for distance from their former intimacy? ‘Do come in, do come in. Let me take your coat. It is bitter out, is it not? I trust the journey did not tax you unduly, but thank you for making it all the same. And how is my sister? And what of Philip, how does he? You must give him a kiss from me when you return home, the most loving kiss that was ever bestowed on anyone!’

Upon realizing what he had said, and worse still, how John might interpret its meaning, Alexander dropped his hands and took a shocked step back. He began again, this time in much more formal tones. ‘But I cannot be rude, please, Mr. Church. Allow me to introduce you to the other guests.’

Their circuit round the room first took them past the three men who were now arguing vociferously about the monarchy. So engrossed were they in the debate that they barely registered Alexander and John as they came to stand behind them.

‘Connected with society!’ cried Mr. Henry, ‘we might even call it a continual, no a _consanguineal_ relation with the different orders of the state.’ 

Mr. Tallmadge agreed. ‘Their corruptions are propagated and this allows their dangerous influence to cover a great distance indeed.’

Mr. Adams followed more robustly in the same line, ‘Ministers poison the source of public felicity as they weaken in the monarch her sentiments of duty, standing in for personal gain. Why, one only need to look at way seats are passed down from mother to daughter see how treacherous this spread of influence can be.’

‘A direct result,’ proclaimed Mr. Henry, pulling the needle angrily and speaking very close to treason indeed, ‘of the entire system of monarchy, which says that certain women are bestowed power by an Almighty God,’ and he took a drink of his tea, speaking wholly in a blasphemous idiom now, ‘and has anyone seen this God? Have we any indication of their works, other than through indirect report? Bah!' 

‘Is this quite legal?’ John asked in a worried hush, for it is true, so many men gathered together in one place could very well bear the mark of sedition.

‘Yes of course,’ said Alexander hurriedly, ‘it is mere speculation. We incite no argument in front of a crowd.’ That being said, and somewhat untrue, he brought him round to meet Mr. Paine, still in repose by the fire, and then to the kitchen where more pancakes were being made by Mr. Hale and Mr. Hancock, and lemons squeezed, and sugar sprinkled, and given to Mr. Allen at the table with Adrienne and Gilbert, the plates positioned awkwardly amongst the piles of cards and saucers for ash. It was a merry scene. Laughter perfumed the room. 

Alexander shut his eyes as if that would keep his heart from bursting over with happiness, and when he opened them again it was too another knock at the door. For a moment he panicked, thinking that they had been found out. The women would have come to retrieve their men, who had some got away with honesty, others by elaborate falsehoods. They would be stopped before they had even began!

Mr. Hale ran to it eagerly and opened the door. Why he enjoyed doing this so much is hard to say, but perhaps he fancied himself the master of an estate as grand as Mount Vernon, and so enjoyed the pretense. Bless him, for he was young in spirit. 

A little girl stood upon the stoop, dressed in a shabby cloak and cream-coloured stockings that she had inherited and which were bunching up around her skinny ankles, more gray than white. She wiped her nose with a grubby hand and said to Mr. Hale with suspicion, 'Who are you, then?'

'Oh, hello!' said Alexander, nudging Mr. Hale away from the opening and positioning his body in front of the assembled guests. 'How do you do, Miss Molly?' 

‘Have you got any letters?’ asked the girl, whose mother was in charge of the post. She was pleased enough to make the journey to Mount Vernon in her place. This was because the strange gentleman with the shiny bottle-green coat would always give her a handful of boiled sweets to take along with the letters, and while the gesture was heartfelt, the girl was both greedy and clumsy, and so the letters arrived at the post office covered in sticky fingerprints and the occasional bit of gravel.

Alexander did not feel like going up the stairs to check. There was nothing vital that could not wait for a few days, and he did not wish to leave the assembled company for so much as a moment. The girl might well report back to her mother, and then where would they be? With a _blasé_ air he said, ‘I have nothing today. Miss Molly, but have you anything for me?’

She promptly handed over a bill for asparagus crowns, a royalty cheque bearing the signature Thos. Jefferson for the amount of four pounds and seventeen shillings, and a letter from Eliza, which bore two striking piece of news. First, she had gained a placement for an apprenticeship in Cardiff with an eminent surgeon there. And secondly, she and John were to be married! Could he believe it? After all this time!

He looked over the delivery, saw that it contained nothing from Castile, Léon, or Andalusia, and passed her a small coin with a heavy heart. Then he went to close the door for she had peered round him, and now fixed a gimlet eye upon the men by the hearth, who were now moved on to the topic of miracles.

‘Have not you got any sweets, then?’ she asked, with the tone of a bargain being struck. Alexander frowned. She wiped her nose again and looked up at him expectantly. She was a dreadful child, but intelligent. 

‘I can do you one better,’ he said, ‘but you must wait there.' Then he slammed the door and rushed into the kitchen. 

Quickly he snatched up two of the pancakes from Adrienne's plate where they lay, cooling and untouched, and brought them without plate or fork or napkin to the girl with the grubby hands. Steam rose from them as he handed them over, and she smiled at him, bright and open for a moment, before he shooed her from the stoop and shut the door again. 

Satisfied, she traipsed down the stairs and trundled down the lane, lemon juice and sugar mixing on her chin in the open air. The pancakes were quite delicious. She would have liked to have had a third, possibly a fourth, and for a moment considered going back and asking for more, but the man seemed anxious to be rid of her. And besides, her mother would scold her if she were late. She pulled her cloak around her shoulders, turned into the wind, and pressed on in the direction of town.


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The House Party — Alexander's Confession — A Pamphlet — On Work and the Public Good_

Everybody stopped for the duration, and chatter filled the house up to the rafter beams. When men gather together, so many in one place, then it gives them license to converse endlessly about their cares and foibles. Gossip replaces good sense, which is as good a reason as any to enforce laws which discourage these kinds of gatherings.

In any case, they were safe at present from outside scrutiny. Given that the evening would likely be a late one, each to a man professed his desire to lie down prior to dressing for dinner — but, as it turned out, they had so much to say to one another that hardly anybody napped at all — save for Mr. Allen, who had been carried away with the port, foolishly thinking he might match Adrienne in her capacity for drink. At some point he wandered out to the stables (he wished to see her horse, a pitiful excuse as any but there you have it), and there managed to fall asleep atop a hay bale, his hands pillowed one atop the other.

Within, the sideboard groaned in displeasure. Eight mouths watered in anticipation. Alexander had changed into his finest black coat and a fresh cravat, after making sure that everything was set out to his liking. Now, he scurried from one room to the next, searching for the absent Mr. Allen.

The one they were all expecting had only just woken up, scratched the sleep from his eyes, and yawned.

Inside the house, the men were also grown irritable. A day spent drinking will stimulate the appetite and dampen one’s capacity to wait for supper, particularly if one wishes to eat the soup while it is hot.

‘We are missing someone,’ Alexander pointed out to Adrienne, irritated. She had strode past the assembled company and made straight for the table. Naturally the guests had followed her. She cared not a whit whether they were all present, but had merely listened to the demands of her stomach. According to it, then it was well past time for the soup.

In the barn, Mr. Allen’s head was rather fuzzy, however he was not so out of sorts as to miss the long-limbed spider which was sprawled very near to his face, staring at his white hair with something akin to envy. Her stripes were elegant enough, but his hair, white and black streaked, was a marvel to behold.

Adrienne ignored Alexander’s pleas, plopped into her chair at the head of the table, and said simply, _‘Je meurs de faim.’_ As if on cue, the rest of the men filed in the empty chairs. Though Adrienne, as the head of the household, sat at one end, and Alexander, sitting in for George _in absentia_ , took the other, the rest seated themselves exactly as they felt like. Most peculiar, this total disregard for rank! And while those with former acquaintance preferred to sit beside one another and so deepen that connexion, new friends had been made since the morning as a matter of course. In particular, Mr. Paine very deliberately seated himself at Alexander’s left elbow. John, who had taken the right-hand side, very deliberately attempted not to notice this decision.

Back outside, Mr. Allen slowly pushed himself back off the hay bale, keeping a watchful eye on the spider the whole time. She did not move, or at least waited to do so until it after he had already bolted through the doors and back to the main house.

When he joined them at table some twenty minutes later, his face was washed, his soiled shirt thankfully changed for a clean one. Although his hair had been brushed hastily, a few sticks of straw remained in it. Luckily for Mr. Allen, the table’s attention was turned in Mr. Hancock’s direction, as he had begun declaiming about the national situation regarding imports.

‘—if you ask me, then it is all owing to this, and you must excuse me here, gentlemen, but it is all the fault of this damned war!’ said Mr. Hancock, eyeing with suspicion the sensible measure of Madeira that Alexander had poured. With a beckoning motion he rudely gestured for more. ‘Don’t be shy, my boy,’ he said, cajoling another inch into the glass, ‘— though I would prefer claret.’

‘— wouldn’t we all?’ observed Mr. Adams, dryly, and held his own glass aloft to be replenished. ‘Thank you, Mr. Hamilton, thank you. I have it on good scientific proof — from my daughter, no less, she is a scientist, you know (here he repeated this last, so that every man present heard the matter of it) — that sweet wine is bad for the complexion and the digestion. She will be speaking on the matter in Edinburgh — ’

‘—though this is hardly chief among its defects in orchestrating a meal,’ added Mr. Hancock.

‘ —no, nor does it go well with fish,’ muttered Mr. Hale, as he picked at his herring with a fork, Fish or fowl made him somewhat green about the face. He waved away Alexander’s offer of more wine and focused on moving bits around the plate to look as though he had eaten. Secretly he hoped for the appearance of a mushroom, or perhaps a bit of cabbage, with the game course.

‘ — but look here,’ screeched Mr. Henry, who in reality cared not a whit about wine, 'I wrote a pamphlet that neatly — at least, I thought it neat, (this as an aside to himself) though some fool woman — begging your pardon, Mademoiselle (Adrienne scarce noticed the insult to the superior sex) — denounced it as being wordy and filled with falsely misdirected invective. Still another, well, I will not say what I thought to call her in the privacy of my own quarters, but she dared accuse me of being unpatriotic! — but in that pamphlet, I laid forth precisely this same argument —’

‘ — about fish?’ murmured Mr. Tallmadge, and then giggled to himself. Alexander offered him merely a slip of wine, as the lad was already done in from excitement.

Mr. Henry spoke over the others about his publication, ‘ —making the argument that we are better served by opening our doors to all trade, even if it is with a people whose customs we find abhorrent. Why, many nations of the world treat their women poorly, but that has hardly stopped us from mercantile contact, has it? And if by this economic exchange we are able to enact some greater good, then it will be in our interest to continue the association —’

‘—that was you!’ cried Mr. Adams, who was an ardent disciple of that school which says that profit should outweigh all other considerations. ‘Good fellow! I remember that! Quoted in the _Spectator_ , was it not?’

‘—indeed it was,’ said Mr. Henry, with a proud mien to his face, ‘August last.’ Alexander froze, poised over John’s glass. His skin had flushed all the way from his cheeks to his forehead.

His heart raced in his chest with an unspoken confession. He replaced the stopper in the bottle, sat back down, and said, ‘I remember your words on that subject very clearly, Mr. Henry.’ He picked up his wine glass and addressed it like a bad actor speaking Shakespeare, 'They tell us that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary as the entirety of society. Hear me now: I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided; and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past.' He set down the glass, and veritably quaking said, 'Very pretty words, sir, but little with which to substantiate your claims. It was easy enough to refute on all counts.' 

Mr. Henry’s jaw dropped. And then, while the whole table looked on, he laughed! Laughed as if Alexander had made some witty quip rather than divulging the long-held secret of his anonymity.

‘My dear boy!’ Mr. Henry surveyed the party, spoke in a firm voice so that his retort would be heard by those at either end, ‘I thought you were a woman! Had I known it was you, and how young you are to boot, then I might have gone easier on you rather than trouncing you so thoroughly in a public arena!’

Mr. Tallmadge tittered into his sweet wine, which he very rarely got at home. The topic changed to rates of compensation for publication, and it turned out that many of the men, even the more prolix in the group, were being granted rotten returns, some earning nothing for their output at all. Alexander was eager to contribute to this conversation as well, but Mr. Paine leaned over the table and spoke very low into Alexander’s ear. John’s throat grew tight at the familiarity, tighter still when Alexander shook his head in a vigorous _no_ and indicated, with a nod of his chin, his brother-in-law. 'John is already my companion for the evening, my apologies,' he said in an even tone.  

They were to share a room! John drifted away from the conversation in pleasant shock, and let his youthful imagination take over. What plans might Alexander have had?

His good mood was to become deep perturbation that same evening, for upon completing his toilet and retiring to Alexander’s room, he was greeted with an unpleasant sight.

Lying smack-dab in the middle of the feather mattress, snoring, was Mr. Hancock, his head covered by a mob-cab and his jaw hanging slack. Alexander was writing quietly at his desk.

A saddened John said a terse goodnight before folding his long limbs into the bed, which sagged in the middle under Mr. Hancock’s heavy weight. As he lay there, pretending to sleep, his mind was restless. It pained John more than he would be willing to admit, the way Alexander had fairly glowed with excitement in the midst of the assembled company.

The following morning he departed for home, leaving a note for Alexander to this effect. A glum feeling hung over him as the carriage rolled down the drive. He twisted his gloves between his hands, wondering if there was a place for him in Alexander’s world now, with everything so novel; electric and new.

Up to now Alexander had needed John. The first time a young man realizes, whether gradually or all at once, that neither love nor friendship can make a single person sufficient to replace all society, nor to stand in for every configuration that may exist, it is bound to hurt deeply.

 

~*~

 

A week later, the rest were enjoying the last few moments of their time together.

Mr. Tallmadge and Mr. Henry were having a ramble about the grounds, discussing the nature of miracles.

Mr. Allen was once more in the barn, gazing with longing at Adrienne's horse. 

Mr. Adams had begun distributing gifts made of his belongings, for he was unable to close his valise otherwise, so stuffed was it with ribbons and vests and stockings. 

Mr. Paine was sat before the fireplace, scribbling on a piece of foolscap in an elegant hand. Every so often he would pause and make reference to a small volume in French which he had found in Alexander’s extensive library.

_Should we be at liberty to form a government for and by ourselves, and in doing so stumble upon that which the French (for all that we may set pale marks against them for their dreadful character in foreign relations) have found ensures freedom for all persons: man, as well as woman; poor, as well as rich; unschooled as well as educated; landless as well as in possession of an estate — were we to do this, unfettered by the tyranny of tradition — then we will have done something unique in the history of the world, and to us will be bestowed the gratitude of an age._

Adrienne sat in the dining room with Gilbert, Mr. Hale, and Alexander, who — much to his dismay, found himself to be the only one of the whist-players that was not smoking Spanish tobacco; — Mr. Hale only having taken the habit up that Tuesday last, upon encouragement from the Frenchwoman.

‘I think,’ said Mr. Hale, frowning at his hand, and concealing it when Gilbert attempted to peek at it, ‘I think we may be in rather hot water here.’

‘How so?’ asked Alexander, and kicked Gilbert beneath the table.

Adrienne snapped at them, _‘Vous deux, arrêtiez!’_

‘She is correct,’ replied Gilbert, rearranging his long legs to avoid Alexander, ‘We are meant to communicate only through the cards.’

‘It seems a silly rule,’ observed Mr. Hale, but soon became engrossed in the state of play and asked no more questions.

Adrienne glared through the smoke which wreathed her head, and played her jack of diamonds. Alexander saw through her finesse, and responded with the queen in the same suit.

Mr. Hale emitted an excited whoop, cried, ‘Well done, Alexander!’ at his partner, and then coughed violently. He was wholly unaccustomed to smoking but found he liked the veneer of sophistication which it provided. 

Alexander permitted the compliment, and even allowed himself to smile at its delivery. He could hardly help feeling smug, given that Adrienne seemed to consider herself so much cleverer than him.

‘I have an excellent partner,’ was all he would say, in the way of niceties which happen to be lies. The truth of the matter was that he knew that Adrienne’s eyelid tended to twitch when she was holding in a secret, such as holding but the one face card. It pulsed even now as she cursed and threw down her cards with a snort.

Seeing as she was dismayed, and agitated when she did not win, when they played again Mr. Hale proceeded to let her take two trumps from him in a row. This returned a smile to her lovely face, and Mr. Hale felt he had, on balance, righted something amiss in the world. She was the sort of woman it was nice to lose a hand of cards to, though now it was Alexander’s turn to scowl. Gilbert merely shrugged.

Mr. Allen was the first to depart, on his own little pony, and left behind his snuff-box. Mr. Adams departed in a cloud of embraces and waving handkerchiefs. Mr. Hancock followed in his wife’s _barouche-landau_ , which had room for four as well as the luggage, and so brought Mr. Henry to town, Mr. Paine as far as Guildford, Mr. Tallmadge to Oxford, and himself at long-last to Chipping Norton and the loving embrace of Mrs. Hancock and the younger Mr. Hancock as well. They were a frighteningly liberal family in this regard.

Alexander decided the housework could wait, and instead set about compiling their drafts and assorted scribbles into something worthwhile. He sent them off with the postwoman’s girl on a Thursday with rain streaming heavily down the windowpanes.

Into a pocket, and then a box, and then a sack, and then another sack, a different box, and a delivery bag, the parcel went. It was handed over to a man with bottle-thick glasses who dwelt behind a chipped green door, and read with the very last bottle of fine French Burgundy that had been saved since the war began. 

Three weeks later a small pamphlet went into production, underwritten by a one Mr. Thos. Jefferson as signatory: _‘A Refutation against the So-Called Laws of Nature, Providence, and Nation: Argument for the Universal Rights of Man.’_   This was to be the first in a regular series, which, when finally compiled and reissued, would form a set that has not at any time since that first printing ever been out of production.

Mr. Jefferson had quibbles with the material as it was phrased, and even made a few editorial interventions here and there for clarity, but he could hardly argue with the sales figures. For the immediate and foreseeable future, though, it was enough profit to secure a case of contraband Lafite and another of brandy, and so he was content. 

 

~*~

 

Alexander found little had changed, at least in matters of domestic economy. Home was much the same; part drudgery, but relief in its own way from the taxing work of planning out a new world. His correspondence doubled, then doubled again, until he was writing so very many letters that it only made sense to publish them, too. 

Proper work, that is to say, _women’s_ work, is public by its very nature. To be a member of the public, though, one must be a gentlewoman, at the very least. Mr. Paine had noted this distinction in his first draft, and the others honed the point still further. Better still to be married, and own property, and in good standing with the Crown. Then one might be considered worthy, and her work would be done in tall rooms with colonnades, and in vaulted chambers behind heavy oaken doors, across rows of desks that had swallowed seas of oak, and in back rooms over billiards tables. And what transpires in these rooms affects the whole society, as we well know. 

This is what we report in the paper; laws introduced, and tariffs levied, and goods shipped to and fro, and numbers tallied, and Latin taught, and medicine, and the never-ending maw of science, and an age on the precipice of a few grand and many small discoveries, that each day begged for greater and greater attention so that one could be assured of an address to the Royal Society at least every fortnight.

And the men sit in circles, and pull needles through bits of cloth, sat as close to windows as they can comfortably be for the light, and sip tea. Their conversations will never appear in the papers, and indeed only upon his wedding day and the occasion of his birth, and his death, might a man be expected to appear at all. But work gets done, all the same, in close rooms and quiet conversations.

So it does.


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Social Order — Service to the Crown — A Hurried Task — On the Perils of Misreading_

Two basic tenets uphold the social order. Every schoolgirl knows these simple facts: wars have been fought since the beginning of time; men’s duty is to fight them on our behalf. Women may on occasion take to the field, and be praised for such stupidity, but by and large they are uniquely suited for command owing to the superior virtue of their intellect. It is implausible to think that men could make tactical decisions, but they are undoubtedly useful. They have heft, like oxen, and this is what matters when blood must be spilled.

Army and Navy alike boast their share of miscreants, layabouts, rapists and criminals. However, let us not concern ourselves with these lower specimens, recalling instead that as recently as a generation ago, when a boy was taken by the Crown for service to the Nation, it was for life, as long or short as that thread happened to be. Everyone understood that he would never return. On the day he sailed forth, his family honoured his inevitable death with a ceremonial funeral, generally a small and sombre affair.

This is the reason why we keep them sequestered in Calais and Bayonne, with a few notable exceptions. It is a bitter truth but a practical one. Why, it would be too painful otherwise, for a mother to think she has caught a glimpse of a child she relinquished all those years ago as she shops for a new pair of gloves. Cruel? Certainly, but as with all cruel things, better for the better part of society. And the men live tolerably well — certainly better than they do under our own horizons: they have a profession, and lovers, and all the meat they care to eat, and freedom, of a sort.

Since the day they leave home our military boys are essentially already dead men, so when the final sacrifice inevitably occurs there is an appalling delay in reporting it. As with most administrative business, nobody is singularly responsible, so it takes an age and then some. After every skirmish, an aide will mark down the losses in a ledger — another compiles them for the acting Field Marshall — that lady makes her own addenda — it is passed to another aide for revisions — after which the Minister of War at last takes it into her possession, wherein it is stored indefinitely on a shelf. Then sure as a perennial plant, taxes come under scrutiny, a young minister wishing to prove herself calls for the roll-books to be laid open and military expenditures scrutinized. This tends to happen in times of peace, when it only makes sense to cull the numbers of men enlisted and the money spent on their care and upkeep.

The roll of the dead would have been recorded in triplicate by the first aide, usually a fined-boned favourite of the woman in charge, when not occupied with other duties, sets about writing the formal letters of condolence to the families. Such a short missive provides little in the way of comfort but grants at last the matter of certainty. A pension will follow, for as long as the matriarch who has given up her son lives, and this is a tidy enough amount; quite a windfall for the lesser families.

The letters share the same formulaic language. Specificities are not forthcoming, for rarely are they recorded at all. Our soldiers hold their possessions in common, as a sort of surrogate family. Of course this means that their fathers are denied the last comfort of a person token which they might keep wrapped in a delicate handkerchiefs in paper-lined drawers, to be unwrapped and wept over on birthdays and feast days. Their mothers lock their study doors and stifle their sorrows with work.

Merely those horrid words — _I regret that it is my painful duty to inform you_ — all the more wretched for being so sterile in their sentiment.

 

~*~

 

If and when the weather was too miserable to hunt then Adrienne could be found at the pub, even more frequently if Gilbert happened to be absent. He had a regular roster of clients who kept him acceptably employed, and had spent the last months of his summer in residence with a wealthy family in nearby Kent. They had been cursed with four sons ranging in ages from eleven to seventeen, and a pressing need to have them married off before the dowries ran out.

On this particular day, the weather was more than fine. Bright and clear with but a few hairy wisps of cloud in the sky, a perfect October day. By all accounts, Adrienne should have been afield, which was why Alexander was surprised to hear noises like muffled shrieks coming from her rooms at the far end of the hall.

He was even more shocked when Gilbert, who he had assumed to be the origin of the noises, came through the doorway a few moments later, stamping his feet in the entryway and taking off his shoes and stockings. Ignoring Alexander’s stunned expression he made for Adrienne’s door and rapped upon it. The noises halted, the door was opened. Words were exchanged, after which Alexander found himself thinking that he would certainly be more comfortable upstairs.

Once settled at his table with his papers and his tea, he set about recopying the corrected pages Mr. Paine had passed along through the post. He did wish to hurry, as the postwoman’s girl would be along within the hour. As is the case when one is rushing to complete a task, in his haste made several additional mistakes.

He had just finished a sentence, and only when reading over the page — after it had been sanded, very careless indeed! — did he notice that he had written _complaisant_ where he meant to put _complacent._ It changed the whole meaning of the passage, but there was no time to start the page afresh. His error was scratched out, with a fat drip of ink at the end of the slash mark. He tried to dab this out, but only managed to smear it onto his cuff, thus ruining a perfectly good shirt in the process.

He swore (in French) to himself — an intemperate habit, undoubtedly Adrienne’s influence — then recovered himself. He took a deep breath. It was only a shirt, and what was a shirt when equality was at stake?

Once again he bent his head to the page, concentrating more carefully this time. Barely had he made it through the first paragraph when the rapper sounded, causing him to jump in his seat. He swore again, this time in English.

Oh, the thing was so close to being finished! Twenty minutes would see it brought to the proof; fifteen if he rushed the corrections. Surely he could keep the child there an extra quarter of an hour — there was blueberry jam in the preserves cabinet — and he could find something to amuse her with — though perhaps not in the vicinity of the mistress’ bedroom at that precise moment…

Alexander flung open the door and looked down, where he expected the girl to be. Then his eyes travelled up across an expanse of fine red fabric, gold buttons, and braid, then further up still to a face with a hard-set expression and eyes like flint.

She removed her tall plumed hat. The feathers made a slithery sound, and he shivered, almost unconsciously. ‘Mr. Washington?’ she asked, without anything in the way of introduction.

‘Yes?’ Alexander said, slowly, still wondering where the postgirl had got to, and what business this lady had with him or his estate, and if he could still manage to finish the revisions in time to send them out today.

‘A missive for you,’ she said, and handed over a heavy paper envelope. He touched his pocket as if to find her a coin for her troubles but she looked at him with such disdain that he simply kept it there, as if he were always in the habit of putting his hand in his pocket and standing in such an mannered position.

The woman saluted him. ‘Your health, Sir,’ she said, then turned on a heel and strode off, placing the hat back atop her head as she did so. She swung as easily into her horse’s saddle as did Adrienne, and it was only at the retreat of the stranger, as Alexander tried to discern whatever was so familiar about her, that he understood her silhouette to be the same. How naturally she sat astride that tall horse, with an ease that was borne of long practice and the comfort of wearing loose trousers rather than breeches (so constrictive!) or the tangled difficulty sure to result from wearing a dress.

He turned over the letter and looked at it, the once-crucial revisions now altogether forgotten — for what was the fight for equality in the face of news about his beloved! Yet the letter did not seem to have emanated from George. When he had been in the habit of writing, which had sadly not been much, then his missives were always delivered through the regular post, not a special courier — which, now that he reflected upon it, of course the mysterious woman in the tall plumed hat had been a courier sent from the military. And there were other indications as well. For one, it was not George’s hand in which his name was written, nor was the Washingtons’ seal imprinted across the back of the envelope.

George had not sent this letter, he realized. George may not have been capable of sending it at all. This was the moment of dread, here at last, at hand. The day he had hoped would never come had come. With trembling hands, he opened it and let his gaze take in the whole of it, at once, for he could not bear to read it line by line.

_October 18—  
Cordóba, Spain_

_Dear Mr. Washington —_

_I regret that it is my painful duty to inform you that on the 28th of September, your husband, Major General George Washington (Custis) of Her Majesty’s 4th Battalion (Light horse dragoons) — was injured while leading a charge against the enemy —_

The paper fluttered to the ground mid-sentence with a whispery noise.

Alexander’s head grew very light.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the yellowing leaves in the walnut trees.

Inside, a woman’s voice reverberated through the whole of the downstairs.

He looked at the paper, which now lay face-down on the floor.

He could not bring himself to pick it up and read it to the end. It had been a child’s foolishness to think that this day would never be upon him, upon them both! As if by keeping himself preoccupied with Mount Vernon he could ensure that George would return to a home where he would want for nothing.

What childishness! What a blind and silly fool he had been. He immediately chastised himself for failing to do more with the little influence he had in intellectual circles. What had he to show for his protest? A few offhand comments about blind patriotism, when he should have been writing against war outright. Why, he now regretted it deeply. For what did it matter, in the end, if men gained some minor freedoms a decade from now? He would throw them all away in an instant for the chance to spend one more moment in the company of the only man he had ever loved.

The letter had fallen close to the three pairs of men’s shoes and lone pair of women’s boots which sat in the entryway. He looked at it once more as it lay there reproachfully. There was nothing good that would come of reading all the way to the end. Bland words — _bravery and service and sacrifice_ — promises of pecuniary compensation to come. It did not matter. None of it mattered. His stomach felt as though it had been grabbed by an iron fist that was trying to drag his entrails out through his navel. It was a sickening feeling, but nothing compared to the horrendous guilt that he had ever let George leave him at all. He should have protested, insisted he remain. Resign his position and come home, and make love to Alexander three times a day, and grow fat and old in front of the fireplace. 

Well, he would get him back. If it was the last thing he ever did, then he would do this one thing. His mind decided, Alexander exhibited no restraint. He picked up the shoes which were his own from the entryway, and tore back up the stairs without a moment’s hesitation. Into a brocade bag went stockings, a nightshirt, a vial of lemon perfume, some tooth powder, all his silver ornaments, the few bits of gold he had secreted about the house, a knit shawl, three shirts, a pair of trousers he had knicked from Adrienne. In the library he found a book of Lady Wellington’s writing, an atlas of the Iberian Peninsula, a Spanish dictionary and a French grammar. He darted to the kitchen. Into the bag, by now fairly bulging under the weight of its contents, he threw some hard cheese, crisp new apples, one of Adrienne's forgotten hunting knives which he would be able to use as a weapon, in a pinch. 

Then he made for the stables and hurriedly ran over to the placid pony who seemed to sense something was amiss. She perked up her ears when Alexander approached, and let him saddle her without complaint.

She was sturdy but not built for speed, and he briefly entertained the notion of taking Hector, Adrienne's fine Arabian, in her stead. But the great horse gave him a disdainful look, and when he offered it a sugar lump it merely took it and retreated to its own cozy corner, staring at him with its great round eye.

No, the pony would have to do for the present. He might be forced to leave her with an innkeeper or at the fording, and pay to take a faster beast to the crossing. Boats would go, but small ones: dinghies and little sloops, so he might be better with the pony after all. And when he reached the coast, what then?

He would have to make his way south past enemy lines, and then through the mountain pass. If only he had paid better attention in geography, rather than admiring the profiles of his classmates, the etched plates in his textbooks! Then he would of course have to locate the garrison, and through some means of verbal dexterity, or perhaps with his remaining silver, convince them that he was a friend rather than foe. They would take him to see George, and then he would begin the dreadful business of bringing his body back to Mount Vernon. He should lie here, in the little churchyard next to Martha in her long coffin and the tiny one which held their stillborn child, and he would visit them every Sunday, and scrub the stones and tend the gravesite, and lay flowers there every Easter.

That was if Adrienne allowed him to stay on at Mount Vernon, of course. As a widower he had no claim on the place or upon her kindness. Well, he would deal with that later. George must be recovered before anything else. He hopped onto the pony, who knelt down very patiently to accommodate him, and they set off at a trot in the direction of what Alexander hoped was the sea. 

 

~*~

 

Reader, let Alexander's haste this provide a caution in the importance of reading comprehension, and the need to wait until the passage ends before rushing off to do something stupid.

When Adrienne went to the kitchen some time later, she found the drawers ransacked as if a thief had been present. The front door had been left open, and the letter had blown almost into the Hall — fortunately, for it was a windy day, and Providence only knows what would have come to pass if the letter had been carried off across the fields and she had never found it. On this we will not speculate. 

Adrienne was a woman of action, and she thrust her feet into her boots, tossed a coat over herself, and took to her own horse as if she was leading a cavalry charge. There were hoofprints in the soft clay of recently tilled fields, and she followed these as they led away from the gentle slope of Mount Vernon, down along the riverbank and to the place where the rivers emptied into the sea. 

It was growing dark and her sight failing, but Adrienne urged her horse on in the direction she felt Alexander must have gone. He was her quarry, and she hunted him over field and plain, until at last in the distance she caught sight of a small man on an even smaller horse, and shrieked to have found him, 

‘Alexander!’ she shouted, and that voice rang out, clear as a trumpet across the plain of Belgium, where even now other men were being cut down like stalks of wheat, and would lie there convulsing, bleeding until bayoneting or a gunshot to the temple was the only mercy left to provide them.

‘Alexander!’ cried Adrienne, as her horse came thundering over the ridge. She drew him to a halt, his hooves skidding in the mud, and pulled his reins so that her left shoulder was at Alexander’s right, though at a much greater altitude given the difference in stature between her horse and his small pony.

She was even more unkempt than usual, her hair a tangled mess around her shoulders, but with a look of most serious determination about her.

Her gaze took him in: the hastily assembled bundle of belongings, as if he were a tramp on ramble; the fine shirt, untucked in his haste; the wild look about the eyes which proclaimed him a man with but a singular purpose in mind: to reach the body while some trace of George lingered about it like funereal smoke, before what had been his soul ebbed away entirely.

He wiped his eyes with the handkerchief which had always been carefully kept in his pocket no matter which waistcoat he chose, the one from so very long ago. It was no longer the pristine token which George had bestowed upon him in the early days of their acquaintance, being by now altogether thoroughly abused, but all the more dear for having been so loved.

Adrienne’s horse snorted, jolting Alexander out of his reverie. He turned to her, face stained with tears. He expected to see sadness but her countenance revealed naught but determination and steel. Her mother’s character, through and through.

The horse stepped close and she said, as if trying to keep them all calm, _‘Il n'est pas mort. Comprends-tu ce que je dis? Il n'est pas mort.’_

Alexander stared at her, unblinkingly. His eyes grew every wide in his long-pinched face. She repeated herself, and when this did not have the desired effect she leaned sideways and shook the paper before him. The letter, the cursed letter! The source of all his unhappiness!

 _‘Lire cette lettre à la fin,’_ she demanded. _‘Lire la.’_

He pushed at her arm, kicked at his pony to continue on. A stern look from Hector was enough to quash that attempted command, and the little beast stayed put, even taking a step or two back from where Alexander had urged him. 

For Alexander, who had but a moment ago thought George dead, but now, upon taking the letter in a quaking hand, tucking the handkerchief between his middle and fourth fingers as he read, and then passing the letter to his opposite hand so that he might hold it to the failing light and read the words which had harmed his heart, and which with two scant lines seemed to ensure that he would never know happiness again, this time he slowed his pace and read more carefully.

 _October 18—_  
_Cordóba, Spain_

_Dear Mr. Washington —_

_I regret that it is my painful duty to inform you that on the 28th of September, your husband, Major General George Washington (Custis) of Her Majesty’s 4th Battalion (Light horse dragoons) — was injured while leading a charge against the enemy._

_Our company was ambushed as we bivouacked in a mountain pass, and but for the bravery of General Washington it would have easily become a rout. He fought at the front of the line with unsurpassed valour, but sustained a grave injury to his right hip, in addition to many other small wounds. Most unfortunately, he was dashed from the back of his horse and lost consciousness for several days. We believe he is through the worst of it now, but he must convalesce in private residence for quite some time. The horse, I am pleased to inform you, has recovered almost entirely._

_Expect further updates as the situation progresses._

_Respectfully,_

_Ms. Molly Pitcher, Esquire._

His eyes filled with tears, blurring the words and smearing the ink. He clutched the letter to his chest and read it again greedily. George lived! Wounded and insensate, but he was alive after all. Such was the relief that a sound burst forth from Alexander’s chest, the most wretched noise of lament that echoed very nearly that one on the ship between the West Indies and the West Country, when the doctor had done all she could, and his mother’s breath rattled in her chest, and she deflated, ever so slightly, as the life passed from her.

The noise began as that _—_  a wounded sadness, like that of an animal with its leg caught in a trap _—_  and it passed from tears of anguish into laughter so intense that it frightened the horses. 


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Plan is Hatched — Gilbert's Concerns Are Laid to Rest — An Adventure, Extremely Briefly Told — George Washington Returns to Mount Vernon_

 

~*~

 

‘It is impossible,’ said Gilbert to Adrienne, who was crouched before the massive fireplace, stirring up the orange embers with an iron poker. ‘More than that, it is sheer madness, my darling, to attempt such a journey! Even if the passage were safe, which — of course as we all know from the papers — it is not. Why!’ — (here he spluttered much like the fire had done earlier when a still-damp log was placed atop those same embers) — ‘Why, the blockade! — And! The ships!’ At this last ejaculation he looked desperately around the room, hoping that somebody would pick up the shards into which his line of reasoning had so quickly crumbled.

Adrienne was a force. It would take all his best efforts to talk her round, and even that was no guarantee of compliance. Help was needed from the others present, and perhaps if they banded together she would see sense. Only if she gave her word could they be assured that she would uphold such a promise, since for all her modern ways she adhered to a code of honour more suited to rascals and rakes than to gentlewomen, and for such people the oath is everything.

But once determined to do something then Adrienne was as immovable as a stone.

 _‘Ça peut être fait,’_ she admonished with a withering look, then turned back and blew on the coals, coaxing them into flickering life once more. Gilbert recoiled for a moment, but soon recovered and held the line. She must be aware that he doubted her acumen not in the slightest — her ability to fend passage was unparalleled — yet the sea passage was but the first of dozens of dangers that would present themselves — and surely she knew the risks involved? — better, altogether much better, to leave the whole business in the hands of the military.

Adrienne leaned back on her haunches so that she gave off every impression of listening attentively. In reality she was already determining what route she would take, and what supplies she would require, and wondering if the fisherman with whom she had once been acquainted would remember her, as she had been quite young when they had met. 

Gilbert was still talking, gesticulating. The military, that was it. Yes, they had a vested interest in the General’s speedy recovery. Their medics and nurses could deal with his maladies in the manner best suited to hastening it. And travel would only slow down the process, surely she must be aware of that fact. Was she so stubborn as to deny such a truth?

(Reader, she was this and then some.)

‘I do not wish to speak out of turn,’ said the fourth person who was neither Gilbert nor Adrienne nor Alexander, but the one who had been entertaining two of them some hours ago. For reasons known only to himself he had lingered well past the time when he should have left. It was now fairly awkward for the lovers to have him there, all the more so as he now felt privileged by dint of their earlier intimacy to take part in what was, at heart, a closed matter for the family to address. He leaned over and addressed the lady directly. ‘But it does sound altogether dangerous. Why not be sensible and wait for the next report? I am sure it will be along in a week or two, at which time you can easily reassess the situation?’

Ignoring this, Adrienne volleyed a burst of French in Gilbert’s direction, and he shrugged, nodded, and grimaced at every turn. The superfluous man interjected at intervals, but the other two spoke over him, pointed as could be.

As for Alexander, this whole time he had been sitting silently, wrapped in a large blanket and lost to the world. In his hands he held George’s handkerchief, turning it over and over as if it were a talisman with which he could summon its owner. 

George _lived._ And if lived, then he must be brought home. He must be, and damn the cost! Whatever she wanted to do would be done, and so it might as well be turned to his own advantage. Their desires were in this, the same. If Adrienne would risk it, risk even her own life in that pursuit, then who was he to dissuade her? Only a man, after all. Just as Gilbert was simply a man. Why should she listen to them at all? She knew her own mind. 

This was simply a fact of nature, and all he had to do was endorse it. Oh, he could cry, but he had cried enough and tears were a weapon of last resort in a clever man’s arsenal. Instead at last he spoke, with a trembling voice that was at first barely audible over the three-way conversation that was not entirely argument, but which Gallic inflection had a way of making so.

‘He must be brought home,’ Alexander muttered, pulling the plaid wool tightly around his shoulders. The argument and the voices and the gestures continued, for he had spoken so quietly. He swallowed and raised his voice a fraction, and first the third man fell silent, and then Adrienne, and last of all Gilbert, who was caught waving his arms above his head while the other two turned their attention to Alexander. Upon realizing he was no longer being watched or listened to, he lowered the appendages in question and folded them in his lap.

They looked at Alexander, with his raw red nose and his bloodshot eyes, and their own reservations fell away in the face of such pure emotion. He sniffed, wiped his nose, then shot a look as fierce as any soldier might wear upon his countenance directly at Adrienne. ‘Please. If I could do this myself I would, but I am but a weak and useless man. I beg of you, as your friend, do what I cannot, bring him back to me. Bring him home.’

Gilbert again made motions as if to protest — the hands were already fluttering up from his lap — when Adrienne raised one perfect eyebrow in his direction. He opened his mouth, rose a few inches from his chair as if his words might still meet with encouragement. A glance told him that this would not be the case. With this admonition he slumped down again, defeated once and for all. She nodded at Alexander. The superfluous man clapped his hands, as if he had played any part in the matter whatsoever. 

The matter thus resolved in her favour, plans were quickly laid for Adrienne’s departure. She would make for the coast and travel under cover of night. Alexander roused himself from his melancholy just long enough to offer her money. With this she could pay to be rowed across the Channel by a working man who valued coin above all else, surely an easy task in times of scarcity. She gladly accepted the heavy purse, tucking it safely into her inner pocket.

From there it would be a simple matter of transferring the horse to land, creating a diversion, possibly killing a few guards, then stealing a larger boat which could be mistaken for a pleasure vessel and sailing it down the coastline, thus avoiding the attention of the blockade ships. Then through the mountain pass to the encampment, sheltering in the woods or in abandoned barns along the way. And then when she arrived and convinced them she was friend rather than foe, there was the matter of persuading those in charge that George would be better off in her care than theirs.

‘It is a reckless plan,’ sulked Gilbert, with his arms now folded, as he took it all in. The third man, with his dark hair and sleepy, sensual demeanour, availed himself of this opportunity to place a hand on Adrienne’s knee. ‘It is a brave plan,’ he said with feeling, and for this, she bestowed him with a passionate kiss. Gilbert was in his turn, kissed as well, though he did not look well-pleased about it.

Then she bent down, and brushed her lips to Alexander’s clammy forehead. He gazed up at her, with her wild hair and eyes bright with determination. She pulled his head forward by the back of his neck so that her forehead met his own, and together they shared a breath and a silence. At last she pulled away with a sniff and said, _‘Ne pas avoir peur, frère. Je vais le voir. Tu as ma parole. Me comprends-tu?’_

She stood. She departed. He watched her go, this woman on whom all his hopes now depended, and he said, very quietly to himself so that the others could not hear the textbook accent and the sorrow which infused the words themselves, _‘Oui, ma sœur, je comprends. Je ne vais pas te oublier la bonté.’_

 

~*~

 

She rode out after packing her supplies, which involved strapping an astonishing quantity of arms about her person and many more besides in her packs. The third man stayed on and prepared a dinner that nobody wanted to eat, but was thankfully gone by lunchtime the next day. He had his own clientele to attend to, and rumours to spread, and gossip to hear.

 

~*~

  
Since this story principally concerns Alexander, we must spare but a moment for Adrienne and the adventures which ensued when she left the estate and went out into the world. If there were ample time for us to dwell upon the tale, then you might learn of how she made her way south and across the Channel: on horseback, then by boat, and at last on foot. You would laugh at the men she seduced and feel pity for the few she left incapacitated. By turns of excitement and shock and sadness would you learn about the chase she was given by a privateer off the Breton coast, the illness which rendered her all but useless for a fortnight just outside of Toulouse, and the unfortunate way the French menfolk treated her, at their own peril.

As she drew nearer to her quarry your anticipation would mount until it exploded in relief when at last she located the man himself, who was quartered in hospital just across the border in San Sebastian. Joy would flood you to learn that he was well enough to sit up on his own, and was in good enough health to travel, according to the medic stationed there. But his second in command — a hulking, beastly man with a greasy queue by the name of Charles Lee, whose red coat was fairly split at the seams on account of his extraordinary size — took issue with this notion. He made his displeasure known to all and sundry, and in the interval spoke such violence against the woman who was in every way his superior, to such an extent that it could not end in any way save for her demanding satisfaction.

(Fortunately, the confrontation passed without major incident, though General Lee was forever after said to comb his hair in a particular way in order to conceal the loss of an ear on his left-hand side.)

As for Mr. Washington, he was granted a leave of absence by his commanding officer for an unspecified duration. This was shocking in its liberality, but as the war was turning rapidly in our favour, such leniencies could be permitted on occasion. He was well enough to travel but not to ride, and the mountain pass would surely be the death of him. A warship bound for Jersey, meant to return with a new shipment of recruits, was pressed into service. From there they were able to charter yet another boat, a small rickety thing, which heaved into the pleasure-towns of the south on choppy waters.

Mr. George Washington, who was already pale from long illness, turned a shade between green and gray and as soon as his boots hit dry land he heaved and retched upon the earth for such a long time that they were obligated to break their journey for a solid week, until such time as he could be bundled into a flat cart. In this he was able to recline like the invalid he insisted he was not. Nelson and Hector were hitched to its front, and it was this means of transport that rattled Alexander awake one frigid March night.

He ran down the stairs in his dressing gown. Adrienne had corresponded with him but three times over the course of her long journey. However a rider had been sent ahead to explain that they were breaking their trip until Mr. Washington was well enough to begin the final stage of travel. To this were appended a few words from the great man himself, conveyed in Adrienne’s messy hand. On these minor pleasantries Alexander floated, with a combination of nerves and outrageous excitement, through the following weeks. He scarce ate, he scarce slept, and every sound seemed to him to announce their immanent arrival. 

And now they were arrived! Here! Home, at long long last. He held up his lantern and held his breath. Shadows like ghosts danced back and forth across the gravel drive, and then the light caught the breast of the great white horse as he strained against his cracked leather harness and to the left it illuminated the russet coat of Adrienne’s horse, and then she too came into the circle thrown off by the light, her clothes travel-stained and dusty, her beautiful face pinched and careworn.

She pulled the horses to a stop, hopped down and began to excavate the pile of blankets, throws, pillows, and luggage that concealed the man whose recovery had taken the better part of several months, and whom Alexander had not set eyes upon in almost four years. 

His head was covered with a cap, and his neck with a woolen scarf that wound up to just below his nose, the tip of which was only slightly pinkened from the cold.

Alexander gawped at him as the hat came off and the scarf was unraveled. His face was revealed. He looked the same, did he not? Or did he look different, altogether different than he was when they had been together? Had he always had a scar above his right eyebrow? Had his eyes always been so dark, his face so stern? Alexander could not remember him as he had been, so bright and loving in his memory. But he was here now, and that mattered more than anything.

‘Hello, Alexander,’ said Mr. George Washington, his throat dry from travel, after Adrienne had helped him down the step. His injury meant that he favoured his left side, and so Adrienne was supporting him on the right. It hurt very badly, and he had refused the dose of poppy milk he was accustomed to take at night so as to be awake when they reached Mount Vernon, but now he was coming to regret this decision. 

Alexander, who had no idea as to the extent of Mr. Washington's injuries, and how they prevented him from bearing weight of any kind in his leg, veritably flew at George, and threw his arms around his neck. 

It should have been a joyful reunion, and it was, save for the fact that instead of the solid mass Alexander had known but a little, and dreamt of for so long, George was weak from injury and illness, and so he stumbled with the impact. Adrienne was unable to keep them both upright, and she cried out as both men fell down onto the gravel drive, Alexander atop George.

The lantern clattered away, its light snuffed out with the impact, and the whole scene was cast into absolute darkness. 


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Yet Another Doctor — A Bath — The Nightingale — Bedtime at Last_

‘— but, Mr. Washington, I cannot stress enough that the organism has been unduly taxed by the difficulties of your husband’s sojourn abroad — quite independent of the injuries, though the male medic did the best he could, I suppose, a very unseemly business, a male doctor — but surely his body will recuperate in time —’  
The doctor was notoriously long-winded, and had said much the same during her examination of the patient, and over tea in the dining room, and now, as Alexander was trying to graciously show her the door, she kept on repeating herself.

‘— rest, rest is the main thing you must do for him. And keep him to a bland diet — certainly no unusual spicing or strong flavours! I do not know your West Indian cookery, but none of that, for certain — heaven only knows what they feed these troops — and quiet, if you can keep it, both indoors as well as out —’

A gunshot rang out at precisely that moment, which caused the good doctor to flinch. Happily, this cut short her declamation.

‘—ah, well, you have my card, and do not hesitate to call if his condition alters. I will return in a week’s time to check on his progress.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Alexander, and gratefully closed the front door. He leaned back against it, his hands tucked behind his back, and permitted himself a moment’s unguarded emotion. His face wanted to crumple of its own accord, but he was stern with himself. He must be strong. It did little good to cry. He had done that and it had not helped a mite, either with his feelings or George’s physical health.

Only this was the third doctor that had been round in as many weeks. Each of them — impeccably credentialed by Oxford and St. Andrews, smartly turned out in black wool with white collars, disdainful as only very educated women can be — had offered but a variation on the same advice. _Bed rest and bland food. Loose clothes, long soaks in purging salts. An emetic should his fever return. Let her know if anything changes. Fear not, he will be well enough to return to his regiment by summer’s end._

As regards these hopeful promises Alexander was deeply conflicted, and this is what he pondered as he leaned against the cool stone door. It was lovely to think that George would in due time be well enough to walk unaided, to ride his horse, and to share Alexander’s bed again. Why, a whole ocean’s span had seemed less distance than the single floor which now separated them, the stairs proving too great an obstacle for Mr. Washington to traverse in any case.

Oh, Alexander did not _mean_ to be selfish, truly. In his heart he knew it would be inconsiderate — intemperate — uncharitable — to expect things to be as they had once been. His loneliness upon first taking up residence at Mount Vernon had proven temporary; now he was blessed with industry, friends, and society all! But, his mind traitorously suggested, if _h_ e had managed to make Mount Vernon his home, then whatever did it mean that George seemed but a visitor in the place? He had lived here once, in a time when the land knew peace.

Declining Alexander’s offer to share his rooms, the widower had instead taken up residence in a small spot barely larger than a broom cupboard. This room, with only a small brown paper window for ventilation, was located just off the first husband’s chambers. These in turn adjoined Adrienne’s, and she had sprawled out into those as well. Books, sacks of walnut shells, buckshot, her mother's clothes, and her grandmother's surveying instruments all littered the floor.

As it was an old house, the men’s rooms were interconnected, a vestige of a time when there would have been several young husbands in shared quarters. However this had been modernized under Martha’s grandmother, and an exterior door added, which enabled Alexander to visit George directly, thus leaving Adrienne and Gilbert out of it. The man of ill repute still visited occasionally. 

Alexander stayed busy. From the kitchen he carried in his husband’s morning semolina and afternoon broth, which was lovingly boiled up from the shinbone of a most unfortunate cow. After he had cleaned the kitchen and crammed in a bit of writing, sewing, or both, he would lug the great copper pot on top of the stove and set the water to boil for George’s evening bath. This, along with twice-daily manual rotation of the affected joints, hot poultices made from onion and camomile, and strong anodynes, comprised his treatment, and it did seem to be having an effect. The organism was, as the good doctor said, perfectly capable of repairing itself. 

 _Time,_ she had said, _give it time. It will heal all wounds._ He resolved to put a brave face on the matter, and with reluctance, pushed off the door and forced himself to smile. 

 

~*~

 

‘I can do it by myself, Alexander,’ George complained, even as Alexander was tugging the long linen shirt over his head. Whereas once it would have caught on the lines of his muscles, so broad and firm was he that even loose fabric was a challenge, now it slipped off easily. He shivered upon its removal, even though the room was quite warm. It hurt Alexander to look upon him so cold and atrophied, and like men often to, he filled the hurt spaces with mindless chatter. 

‘Nonsense,’ chided Alexander, and went up on tiptoe to ease the shirt over George’s head. The whole process had veritably exhausted him, sweat beading his brow, and, Alexander saw as the clothing was stripped away, his shoulders too. He laid the shirt aside and forced himself to look away from the scars which lacerated the broad chest and upper arms. It was too horrible to contemplate even in retrospect. The sheer brutality of it! No honest man deserved such a fate, especially not one as noble and kind as George. And he was meant to return, after all this! To go back and leave him all alone, most likely for the remainder of his natural life. He would be killed fighting the French. And for what? For land? For trade? For a return to things as they were a generation ago? So that other men might be ground down under the heels of noblewomen for all future generations, as if there was any divinity in such a system?

George would be sent to die, and he would have nothing left.

Blinking back tears he said, with an air of good cheer, as if a bath was the most thrilling thing in the whole wide world about which George should also be excited, ‘Now, let me test the water. Is it too hot for your liking?’

Alexander leaned over and plunged a hand in while George turned his back and lowered the gray linen trousers as best he could. As he had difficulty bending down these were stepped out of and left in a sad pile on the floor. There came a moment when Alexander was gazing at George, and George happened to be looking down at the same time, to see what had happened with his pants, and their eyes met. It would have been so very simple to reach out and touch — Alexander’s upturned face, George’s bare brown leg. Their eyes met, and George self-consciously fiddled with his waistband, as if today might be the day he would finally do away with his underthings and not wear them into the tub with him — but his resolve seemed to fade ever so quickly and he moved away. Alexander dropped his eyes and picked up the linen trousers. These he fussed over, and folded and refolded them before finally hanging them up on a peg.

George was staring at the bath with trepidation. He, who had spent his adult life cleaning his body in cold water, thought even tepid temperatures too extreme. He frowned as he put his foot in, then grimaced as he lowered his now-diminished bulk into the washtub, refusing Alexander’s attempts at assistance. He ignored the wishes of his husband and held out a hand in case he slipped, but the once-great man reached the target without incident. They both emitted a sigh; George pleased that he had not fallen, Alexander relieved for the same reason.

‘It is fine, thank you,’ George said, and moved his hands to cover himself. He permitted himself to be touched, but he took no pleasure in it. Alexander noticed this, and was hurt by the implication in it, as if George were somehow less than he had been. But it is difficult to put such sentiments into words, even when one is very good with writing, and so instead he said nothing, and reached for the soap.

He washed George’s pitted back and continued speaking, though it was a lonely conversation. He said, ‘I gathered the lavender for this soap with John. They have a whole field of it at their estate. Beautiful stuff, almost violet and so very bright. And you would not have known, though I did write to you about it, but that was the very hottest summer that I can recall in my memory. The crop was very good because it was so dry.’

Alexander waited, thinking that now would be a suitable time for George to contribute to the conversation. When he did not, he swallowed, and moved on to wash the left arm. It was relatively unblemished, save for a long shadowy indent where once a sleeve had caught fire and charred the skin beneath.

His voice was even when he continued. ‘I had been here but a single year, but Henry insisted that the weather was most unusual. Eliza said much the same in a letter, that the hospital was filled with cases of sunstroke and dehydration. Was it very hot in Spain, or were you still in France then? Only I did not hear from you, and am merely curious now, if you are at liberty to share it.’

George shifted as Alexander began to soap his other arm. The damp sponge left streaks through the foam, and made a noise like fizzing in the quiet room. Bathwater splashed in the tub. A nightingale sounded his evensong. Hands slipped over wet skin, and Alexander shot furtive glances in certain directions, and then turned away, blushing this time. His cheeks were so very hot. How lustful of him, for wishing look his fill and to touch every bit of skin he could, when George obviously did not share his sentiments.

By the time George was toweled off and had been helped into the bed, even the nightingale had fallen silent. Alexander went to the kitchen to heat his evening infusion atop the stove. Supper was out of the question; as food combined with the poppy tea served only to make George sick, which they had learnt after many ill-fated attempts to mix them.

Alexander blew across the top of the cup to cool it, and George swallowed his medicine without complaint, like a good soldier. His eyes were very dark, until the lids at last drooped and covered them. Alexander left him then, with a kiss upon his forehead, but left burning the lantern so that the room might have some light. Since his return George seemed unable to sleep in total darkness, even with the soporific effects of his medicine taking hold, and was prone to poor sleep and agitated dreams besides.

From his nest in a yew branch, the nightingale tucked his head under his wing and murmured drowsily to himself. George finally drifted into a blessedly dreamless sleep as the pain in his leg subsided. Alexander sat at the dining table and went through the estate’s accounts once more. Papers covered in arithmetic sat in a high pile by his elbow. He flipped one over and ran through the figures again. 

The doctors were proving costly, but he had enough bankrolled that they would not have to worry seriously for some time yet. His investments were generally sound, a few speculative losses here and there, but nothing outrageous. Money still came in from Mr. Jefferson, though this was purely residual. The pamphlets were circulating of their own accord but he had no time to contribute anything but small revisions, a few quotations here and there. Well, they would make do. Provided that Adrienne did not squander their reserves at the games tables, they would be comfortable until Christmas.

He put down the paper and put his head in his hands. It ached from staring at numbers for too long. He pinched his nose and poured himself the first of several glasses of wine. Then he lit another candle, and put on his spectacles so that he might see the fine print more easily.

When a suitable interval had passed, Alexander decided he had worked for long enough. He rose from the table, taking the candle with him. It was his habit to check in on George before making his way upstairs, though, f it were up to him, then he would gladly sleep on the floor next to the narrow bed where lay his husband. George had curtly dismissed the notion as so much of Alexander’s incessant fuss.

The door creaked. George snorted but did not wake from his slumber. Alexander stood there in the darkened room and waited for what seemed an eternity. When he was quite certain that George would not stir, he gingerly set down his lantern and hoisted himself into the high featherbed. Here he curled his small body around George's larger one, and laid his head beside George's on the pillow. His heart swelled with an inexplicable hurt, but he did not cry out, for fear that he would disturb the other man's rest. Sleep he fought off, despite his exhaustion, for he must be away by morning and pretend he had spent the night in his own chamber, rather than here, listening to the man he loved breathe. 


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _An Exciting Use for Rhubarb — A Mountain of Melancholy — Future Plans — John Offers Alexander Some Advice_

The kitchen was suffused with a pungent aroma. Alexander’s glasses were fogged over on account of the steam that rolled off the boiling kettle in waves. Thus he was obligated to keep removing them from where they sat atop his nose and wipe them clean on his shirt. In reality he desperately needed to be fitted for a new pair, as his vision was rapidly deteriorating. But that required an optician, and a trip to town to see her, and it would take more than a slight daily headache which began around 11 o’clock and lasted all day to persuade him to travel without George. He would simply have to make do, and if that meant squinting at the foolscap and burning twice as many candles during the night, then so be it.

Once again the lenses grew cloudy, but rather than watch idly as Alexander floundered, John kindly removed the spoon from his hand. Taking over at the stove, he sniffed at the hot steam. It smelt mainly of clove, and onion, and molten sugar, so hot it could singe flesh.

‘Are you sure it is not too much sugar?’ he asked with trepidation. His nose wrinkled. ‘This spring rhubarb is so tender, hardly sour at all. When my father makes it, he uses very much less than we have done here.’ The sugar was a constant source of contention when they cooked together. John was inclined to use less than was necessary in the interest of retaining his figure. With a second child on the way, a man could never be too careful.

Alexander — for whom there existed no such thing as too much sugar, as he had never met a sweet he did not adore — fitted his glasses back on. They were now rather smeary, and could stand to be cleaned properly. He squinted at the scrap of card with Mulligan’s own recipe written upon it. ‘It says here add a sufficient quantity of sugar to taste,’ he said, peering over the frames at the pot, its contents bubbling and pink, ‘but if you are so concerned then perhaps a bit of citrus peel will right the balance.’

‘Sharpness, of course,’ John agreed, ‘yes, let us try that.’ He backed up, passing the wooden spoon back over to Alexander as he did so. ‘I will prepare some directly.’

Like partners in a dance, they exchanged places. Alexander stepped in where John had just vacated and began to stir. ‘Only blanch it first,’ he reminded John, as his glasses fogged up again, ‘or it will be bitter.’ John nodded in silent agreement and whirled back to the countertop and the fruit board.

Making chutney takes companionable time. They talked, simmered, strained, tasted, bickered, and at last sealed the jars. Throughout this process they kept as quiet as they could out of concern for Mr. Washington, who was taking an afternoon nap. He opted to confine himself in his room, even though Alexander insisted he would be most welcome to sit at the table while they diced onions and sliced ginger-root. 

‘No thank you,’ he had said, and turned over to face the far wall. Alexander waited, hoped he would have a change of heart, but the mountain was silent. The gray linen shirt was awfully wrinkled, and vaguely smelly, but George seemed disinclined to take it off. It seemed impertinent to ask, but what Alexander would not give to wash the thing, press it with a hot iron. And during the process he took it in at the sides a mere quarter inch or so at each seam then it would hang better, and George would be none the wiser.

The gray mountain was still and Alexander merely said, ‘Very well. We will try to keep the noise to a minimum. But only do tell us if it bothers you, and please do come out if you change your mind. John is good company, and has asked after your health ever so many times. I am sure he would be glad to see you walking about.’

Yes, the doctors had been correct in their predictions. Soaks and salts had done wonders for George’s body, though his muscles had atrophied from disuse. Alexander thought that if only he would eat something substantial, then perhaps he would regain the lost weight. But whether he roasted beef or boiled gruel, it all came back to the kitchen cold, congealing. Untouched. 

His body was better, that could not be denied. Alexander clung to this as a hope. While he favoured one leg more clearly, he could dress and bathe himself now, which meant that Alexander was no longer needed for either intimate task. Since he had expressed the desire to do these tasks himself, despite not actually doing them, Alexander sought any excuse to spend time with him.

This was also a source of simmering resentment. George so clearly wished to be left alone, and Alexander so desperately wished to be closer to him. And then to top it all off, there was the terrifying prospect that once he had been pronounced recovered, he would be sent away again. It was in Alexander’s best interest to keep George incapacitated this way for as long as possible.

Across the sea, the war raged on. Skirmishes and major engagements were reported with equal breathlessness to a reading public desperate for entertainment. That is what war is, when one is not directly involved in it. A source of horror and palpable excitement; very occasionally a minor inconvenience. The daily papers were full of such reports from the field.

Reading the papers was the sole activity the two men now shared, when Alexander would attend to George in the afternoons and read aloud to him. Charles Lee had accomplished, for the record, several minor successes. Hundreds of leagues away, that man was happily basking in the relative glory these had provided, like a large and dirty jungle cat with matted fur.

George lay on his side atop the covers and stared at the shadowy wall. His limbs were heavy but his eyes were wide open. Sleep would have been welcome, for he was lately exhausted absolutely all the time, even when he had only just woken up. Especially then, come to think of it. Currently it was his irritation keeping him awake. Afternoons were the time he and Alexander spent together, reading softly aloud from the papers, which rustled as the pages were turned. George found the noise oddly soothing. Usually he would drift off to sleep, and that sleep was refreshing, unmarred by dreams. Today, however, he was denied even that with John Church Schuyler come to call.

His hearing was acute, though his senses seemed dulled by his tiredness. He heard John’s arrival, and the cheery voices of the two friends as they went through to the kitchen garden. The thick stone walls shut out all sound when they were outdoors, but when they came back in some forty minutes later, he distinctly heard Alexander laughing. It was a lovely sound and yet it irritated him. What on earth could be so diverting? Why should he laugh when the world was so colourless and gray? Why should anybody have reason to laugh ever again?

The things George imagined, shut up there in his small bedroom, were much worse than the reality. Whenever his eyes threatened to close, he saw it. There were hands on waists, and the young men feeding one another dainty bites of jam, and eyelashes batted about as if on a cricket pitch. George was livid at the indecency of what passed through his mind, appalled that Alexander would hurt him thus. This indignation pained him, but by the same token, it provided him with something to hold onto. A certainty, coal-hot, that glowed in the bleakness.

And so he permitted this anger to grow. It was a feeling, and on that account felt better than nothing at all.

We know by now that John and Alexander’s flirtation had wholly subsided into an easy, familiar closeness. While Alexander had not entirely outgrown his childish need to be adored, fatherhood had changed John into a person less frivolous than before. They tempered one another, and as things go, it was a fine friendship indeed.

George heard the door shut as the two men moved out of doors with their tea once the last jar had been sealed. It was pleasant to sit there, watching the gardens come alive. The climbing tea roses would come out in early June and suffuse the whole courtyard with their odour.

‘I will hate to miss them bloom,’ Alexander said to John about the roses, ‘but if we are to make the journey to the West Country then it makes little sense to stay for any less than a fortnight. Ten days there and ten back. We will be absent for the entire month.’ He had yet to mention the invitation to George, as he was waiting for the right moment to propose the journey. Once the doctor had cleared him for travel, that would be the time. 

John lifted the cup to his lips, patted them delicately dry. ‘They have a honeymoon planned, do they not?’

‘To the Lake District,’ Alexander said, a bit jealous, ‘which will surely provide some spectacular views.’ He begrudged Eliza no happiness, for she deserved it all, but it did not alter the fact that circumstance had denied him a honeymoon after his own marriage. Maybe he could arrange something for the two of them. What was to stop him from giving them a second honeymoon, even if it were in actuality the first one? It might do them good to see new sights together. A change of scenery might shake George from his melancholy.

A honeymoon was also, make no mistake, the time when newlyweds became acquainted with one another. It could be a time of reacquaintance, surely? Oh, Alexander did so miss knowing George, and being known by him.  
Unawares that Alexander was lost in a very personal fancy, John kept talking. ‘I Imagine the house must be very empty, or at least it will be once Eliza leaves.’

Alexander was slow to respond to the gambit. Yes, it could be a holiday. Why not enjoy the journey, rest at the finest inns, consume good food and better wine? He would mention it directly to George. ‘She has been absent so much lately, with her time in Cardiff, that I am sure they are already quite used to it by now.’

John set his cup and saucer down. ‘And then only Peggy will be left. I wonder who Lady Catherine has planned for her.’

Poor Peggy! Alexander was concerned for her future, and not only because he knew what it was like to bear the full weight of Lady Catherine’s scrutiny. The marriage season tries us all. But really, it was altogether more serious than that. Oh, he read the papers and thrilled to the reports, same as any person who enjoys a ripping good tale told well.

But then George had returned home, and the stories seemed less exciting. Alexander was reminded afresh every time he looked George in the eye, and saw there blankness, and desperation. He would not wish that state upon anyone, having seen what war does to a person. It seemed a dismal future for Peggy, though the uniforms were quite smart. She had always been very handsome in red.

He had started to think more conservatively about her future. It would not be so bad, would it, to wed a kind man like himself, for whom marriage and the subsequent act of conception would not prove too abhorrent. She would be happy enough with such a life, and could find a profession — the law, or trade — that suited her free spirit. If it had been up to him, then he would have invited her to come to Mount Vernon, but it was Adrienne’s place to offer.

‘She is bound for the military, as far as I have heard,’ was all he said.

‘Then there will be another party soon enough,’ John replied, for unlike the men, the women who choose the military are _fêted_ with parties more like weddings than funerals. ‘I am sure General Washington will be able to offer her some sound advice if she chooses such a path.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Alexander said, with a kind of hastiness that John understood meant he had touched a sore spot. Any time he had enquired after the General’s health he had met with a similarly vague reply.

‘Only?’ probed John, gently.

Alexander desperately wanted to speak of this to someone. He did not want to burden Adrienne with it, and Gilbert was absent again, and it seemed a very personal business for a letter. John had always been most trustworthy, had he not? If he had been inclined to share secrets, then it would have been the ruin of them both. He could speak to John about George’s condition, if he tread lightly upon the subject.

This decision arrived at he said, cautiously, ‘Only he does not seem himself these past months.’

‘He has had a very rough go,’ John reminded him. ‘Certainly you cannot expect him to be on his feet already.’

‘But,’ Alexander protested, ‘but he is better in body, I feel. He can walk about, only he chooses not to. He could ride, but it is Adrienne who takes Nelson out and grooms him. He has no conversation, no interest in anything at all.’

John listened attentively. The rose hips nodded in the breeze. He remembered his lessons about motherhood, and how for some it is a joyous time, and for others a mere inconvenience, but for a very unlucky few the worst possible outcome takes place. Angelica had exhibited the more excitable signs, which typically manifest as self-doubt, but they had called in a specialist all the same.

‘May I be so bold, Alexander, as to offer you some advice? You will forgive me if it is out of line.’

Alexander cocked an eyebrow, then lowered it. ‘I have never prevented you from speaking your mind, my friend.’

‘Only,’ and here John paused, for while there was nothing shameful about calling in a doctor to address a physical problem — what else was medicine for, if not that? — it was, and still is, uncouth to admit to any failings of mental, or worse besides — moral character. He did not wish to implicate Angelica here, and instead turned the statement he had been preparing into a question. ‘Only do you think that perhaps Mr. Washington might gain advantage in being seen by a different doctor?’

‘I have had four separate doctors and nearly a dozen visits,’ said Alexander with a rueful laugh, ‘Neither one of us can bear to have a fifth.’

‘I am acquainted with a doctor who might be able to offer another perspective,’ John said, and told Alexander about her.

For his part, Alexander felt it a betrayal to speak ill of George. Only he never left his room, and he was always in a foul mood. He was never unkind, exactly, only he seemed to take no pleasure in Alexander’s company. Still, he persisted in trying, for the alternative was to horrible to contemplate. George no longer loved him. In fact he had never loved him, and had merely married him to save him from a more terrifying prospect. Now, with Alexander under his roof, was he able to see what a disastrous choice he had made.

Alexander listened to what John had to say, and politely declined the offer of assistance. It would sort itself out in time.  

Back in the bedroom, George was dozing. He needed the rest, but would still be tired when he woke. Later, Alexander would bring him a sandwich on fresh bread, with ham and mustard and the chutney he had just put up. It would be left untouched on the plate, despite being quite enticing.

‘Please, John,’ Alexander pleaded, as they were saying their farewells on the doorstep. ‘Forget that I said anything at all. I am sure that it will all blow over soon enough.’

‘Of course,’ John answered sweetly, and pulled on his white gloves. He truly meant to keep the business to himself, but upon returning home — after he had had fixed dinner for his wife, bathed his son and laid him to bed, and tidied up the cupboard to store his share of the newly jarred chutney — wrote a short letter of introduction to the London doctor, describing Alexander’s situation. Would she accept new patients?


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eliza’s Invitation — Alexander’s Intrigue — George’s Forbearance — Adrienne’s Indifference_

Alexander rubbed his finger over the sharp edge of the invitation on its cream-coloured cardstock. Into the double envelope, Eliza had tucked a note which was written in her familiar, looping handwriting —

_Alexander —_

_Even as far as you are from Monmouth, I hold out hope that you will find a way to join us for the occasion. John will be devastated if you are not in attendance, and Peggy will be even worse. As for me, I make no promises as to my own happiness — though surely a bride is owed the presence of a most beloved brother and dearest friend on her wedding day? Promise me you will make an attempt._

_We pray for General Washington’s health every Sunday at church, and for your own good fortune, my dear Alexander._

_With love and affection,_

_Eliza_

Since the invitation had found its way to his doorstep, Alexander had read both it and the accompanying note several times a day. As to the nature of his agitation, it was easy enough to puzzle out. He discerned a hint of gentle chastisement in Eliza’s words; they had fully intended to see one another before now, but life managed to always foil their schemes. He wished to feast his eyes upon her, and Peggy, dear old Mulligan, gentle Mr. Schuyler. Even Lady Catherine herself, with her hard air and lack of humour, how good it would be to see her again. For the groom, John Laurens, he felt fortunate in that he retained but a twinge of feeling for the man who had been his first infatuation.

Because he very much wished to attend the wedding and to do so with George at his side, Alexander needed all his wits about him in order to make this transpire. He left nothing to chance, and acted with extreme solicitude and uncharacteristic cunning during the time they spent together in the afternoons. For example, he made it a particular point to implant the setting of the West Country in George’s mind. This was achieved by mentioning the circumstances of their own first encounters. In the telling he lavished the circumstance with a certain romantic relish (accomplished primarily by way of sighs and glances) that were meant to elicit fondness — among other sentiments.

Alexander put down the invitation and gathered together the daily papers. The war had been going badly, and so was allotted much less ink, and now it was going splendidly, and the papers were fat with narrative accounts. He found them riveting, while he was reading them aloud, but then but mere hours later had you put to him the difference between a frigate and a sloop, a carbine or musketoon, it is unlikely he could have given you a straight answer.

It was already gone three. Alexander would have preferred to keep writing, possibly until it was time to start supper, but George expected his morning tea at seven and his luncheon at eleven and the papers at three o’clock. The man absolutely required routine, even if it presently consisted of lying about and looking glum. Owing to this necessity, Alexander was given over to the sense that George was still not in charity with him on account of having John round. Solicitous even in his grief, it meant that he complained not in the slightest. But resentment showed plain in the sloop of his shoulders, the drooping eyebrows as they cast shadows over the dull hollows of his eyes.

 As he hastened down the stairs, Alexander gathered his wits about him. Remembering the plan — a cunning plan! — recalling to George the early days of their acquaintance — when it had all been so dizzying and new — would he endeavour to chisel out his hardened heart. There must remain something — a scraping, the leavings in the bottom of the barrel — with which he could still love Alexander. Love him less, if that was the only option, but love him still.

George had left the door to his little room awry, but Alexander knocked regardless. It seemed only polite to confer upon him his privacy. 

 _‘_ Come in, it is open,’ he said. He spoke clearly, though this provided no real insight into his present mood, had he been in poor temper he would not have answered at all. So Alexander thought, at least.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said, and bowed towards the ground. George was sitting upright against the headboard. His bedclothes were piled high, tangled about his bare feet. A peculiar odour hung about the room, which desperately needed a good airing. Alexander glanced at the musty carpet which lay across the cold floor, which had not been giving its usual spring airing. The whole atmosphere was oppressive and gloomy, and shuddered at the state of it. If only he could persuade George to move rooms, or at least sit for a longish spell before the fireplace, then he could tidy up the place.

A silver glint informed him that here was where all his spoons had run off to. George was accumulating them under the edge of the bed, and their sticky surfaces were covered with lint, and dust, and what looked like cat fur, though no cat had lived in the house since Martha’s time. He would have to come back for the spoons, and the carpet on which they rested. They must be boiled, polished, put on a high shelf for safekeeping; the carpet he would beat out of doors the following morning.

‘You are late,’ said George, affronted from the outset. His arms were folded across the white shirt which was stained in several places. An even more peculiar smell rose from that, and Alexander regretted not choosing a more odiferous _eau de perfume_ for the occasion.

'I was reading a letter from Eliza,’ Alexander supplied, ‘she offers you her compliments and best wishes for a speedy recovery.' 

'Thank you,’ George replied, almost mechanical in his tone. ‘Do sit down.’

'Yes of course,’ he said, placing the papers on the chair seat and arranging himself to his liking, as far upwind of George as he could be in that small room. And then with such artifice, such cunning, did he steer the conversation back to Eliza’s letter, and to Monmouth.

‘Only,’ he began, and pursed his mouth delicately, ‘only the effect that this letter caused, for it has been ages since I have thought of Monmouth. But of course it is a monumental place in my memory and will remain ever so important in my estimation, because it was the place where I first set eyes upon you.’  

A keen observer would notice the way George very clearly flinched at this mention, and crossed his arms more securely across his chest. Alexander was keen to implement his plan, despite the clear signals that it was about to be poorly received. Thus he proceeded to spin out the tale of their first meeting, and put to George a dozen questions about its particulars.

You will recognize this behaviour, surely, as being similar to the way a newly-betrothed man will bother his wife-to-be until their first anniversary at least. Sentimental to a fault, he will wish to hear their own circumstances racast as a story filled with passion, and a kind of historical inevitability. At the end of this telling, he wishes for her to cup his face tenderly and say without the slightest trace of irony, _I knew from the moment I first set eyes upon your lovely face, my darling. Even though our mothers arranged the whole thing, and I was so very terrified that you would be ugly, or worse, dull, but you charmed me with your smile, so sincere!, and the freshness of your cheek, and the way you held my waist as we danced. It could never have been otherwise._

Alexander’s tactic was very much in this mode. Embellished with poetry, garlanded with flowers that had not been there the first time, he put to George a series of questions. Did he remember that afternoon in the woods, when he came upon the recumbent figure in such a disarray? Surely he recalled the first time they were properly introduced by Mrs. Church. How they danced at the wedding reception? Did he remember the token he bestowed upon Alexander during that whirlwind of an evening?

George cut him short in a low tone, ‘Yes, Alexander, I remember all that and more. I was there, after all, was I not?’

This was not quite the desired response that he had anticipated. Alexander’s heart quickened to remember the feel of George’s warm large hand as it had folded around his own, the gentle manner in which he said keep it. Even now it made his scalp tingle. Such marvellous hands! He cleared his throat and instead of reminiscing rustled the newsprint and said, ‘Oh, look here! Lady Nelson has taken yet another prize along the Spanish coast. Valued at ten thousand pounds! Shall I read you the account? It promises to be very dramatic.’

George sighed, closed his eyes. Glory for everybody but himself seemed to be the order of the day. And if not a man of action, then what was he? Merely a lump and a waste of space at that. Well, if it pleased Alexander, he supposed he could bear to listen. ‘Very well,’ he said, the heavy tone masked by somnolence, ‘read to me of Lady Nelson and her prize money.’

When that story had been finished, and George's eyelids were grown heavy, Alexander came to the point directly. ‘Regarding Monmouth," he said, 'Eliza is to wed John Laurens. We have been invited to attend.’

George regarded Alexander dispassionately. The statement hung in the air. Eliza, _Eliza_. Yes, he remembered Eliza Schuyler. He thought back as well as he could. Before, when the world had been less gray, then he had thought on Eliza with fondness. A sweet girl, good-natured, with a kind heart prone to believing the best in people. He remembered liking her a great deal, and thinking it a shame that she must live so far from Alexander after they had wed. They had been so fond of one another. But all that was the past, and it seemed unthinkable, untouchable now.

Presently, George heard but one thing, which was that Alexander wished for him to traverse the length of the damn country so that he might sit in a close room with complete strangers who would have naught to say to him. That was absolutely fine with George, for he did not wish to speak with anyone as of late. Not even Alexander. No, especially Alexander. He was unsure what had happened, for he knew he must have felt passionately about the man he now called husband once. It came in flashes, bright like a muzzle-shot, at random during his dismal moods. Something about the curve of his mouth, or the way he crossed his legs, and for a hot second George would think that the spell had been lifted.

But then the moment passed and the cotton-wool haze settled again, and he only wished to lie down in the dark, cool room, against the cool, smooth bedclothes, and speak to no person and have no company. 

‘I am sorry, Alexander,’ he said. For what it is worth, he did sound very regretful indeed. ‘But I think it best that I remain here. If you wish to go without me, then by all means. Take the carriage, you are at complete liberty to make use of it. But I do not think a long journey will do my health any good.’

Alexander had feared this excuse and had a rejoinder at the ready. ‘I will send for the doctor,’ he said, with a determined air, ‘and we will ask her opinion. If she thinks that you are well enough, then why should you not accompany me? Oh, it will be so wonderful to see everyone again, can you imagine?’

While he talked and continued talking, George was glum, his lips pressed into a thin line. Another doctor to take his pulse and gape at the disfigurements which had rent his sorry flesh. Melancholic temperament made him poor company, but even more than this he was weary of being placed under scrutiny. Talked to cheerfully by plain women as if he were a simpleton, and needed to be shielded from the truth that his life was over.

Alexander nattered on. ‘—only I am sure if we keep to the high road, and go but slowly, then all will be well. Why, you managed to make it here on the back of a horse-cart, and that did not seem to cause any lasting harm. This will be ever so much more comfortable, and we may take as long as we wish.’

Unbeknownst to Alexander, his enthusiasm managed merely to make the situation worse. On the face of it, his concern was wholly well-meant — to love George was to care for him, to consider otherwise was inconceivable — yet every phrase served to reinforce the suspicion that he was a problem to be solved. He was a self-reliant man, but more even than that, he was strong. Now beset by a triple setback (injury, illness, and idleness) he was pained to suffer not merely the loss of mobility, but chiefly his pride. That sin can be a virtue in a man, provided the quantities are sufficiently small, yet left unchecked it sprawls into something unfettered, abrasive.

George was silent, affronted in his turn.

Alexander continued. ‘— And while we are on the subject, I have had a rather fantastical notion, George. Perhaps you will humour me by hearing it out,’ and he here he lowered his gaze to the floor so as to show his eyelashes to their full effect. It would have caused any lady worth her salt to require a drink. When he spoke he blushed so prettily that it seemed artificial, but his emotions were as true as anything. These enchantments should have caused an immediate impression upon George, so deliberate and lovely were they — and they would have done, had he been but a fraction of his former self.

Blushing to the roots of his hair, he stammered out the remainder of the proposal. This notion had weighed heavy upon his mind since he first contrived it, and it now was a blessed relief to speak freely. ‘There are many inns and taverns along the way — lodging places, inns and suchlike — and I thought perhaps — only, when we were newly married it was such a taxing time—’

What should have recalled passion and reignited the same merely reminded George of his current inadequacy. It had been so long since he had felt any strong emotion, especially not ardour. He could hardly believe he had pleased Alexander in that way once so long ago, and felt certain that it would never take place again. Entanglements and lovers come easily to young men. Four years might well be a lifetime to them. George remained staunchly certain that Alexander had formed at least one such attachment during his deployment. It pained him to ponder it. Indeed, he could hardly bear to hear them in the next room.

‘Thank you for the suggestion,’ replied George, and now he was cold and angry at the same time, ‘but I prefer to remain here. Go if you like. I am sure young Mr. Schuyler has plenty of room in his carriage, and the journey will be long. It should give you ample time to converse.’

Alexander was stunned by this. What had John to do with anything? Bewildered, he tried again. ‘The doctor—’ he started, but George’s words cut across like a saber through soft flesh ‘—No, Alexander. I thank you, but I do not wish to go. I do not wish to be seen by the doctor any more, and most of all, I do not wish to be persuaded.’

With this Alexander was flabbergasted, his usually sharp tongue dulled into submission. Whatever did he mean by such dreadful pronouncements? Why he did he protest so? 

'And now,' George said, and lay back down as he spoke, 'I wish to sleep.' He rolled over so that his back once more presented itself to Alexander, and was quiet. 

The plan had gone badly. Though it was nearly time for Alexander to begin putting supper together — Adrienne had gone fishing and supplied them with eight silvery brook trout which would fry up deliciously in that morning’s bacon dripping — he instead bent down and rolled up the soiled carpet, carrying the dirty spoons in his free hand, and went out of doors to beat the living daylights from the rug and work out his disappointment thus. 

It was outdoors that Adrienne came upon him, whacking the heavy fabric with a fallen tree branch, with the most intemperate look she had ever seen upon his sweet face. She spent a much longer time than was strictly necessary grooming the horses, by which time Alexander had cleaned the spoons, set the table, prepared the fish, and improved his mood marginally by the application of large piece of almond cake to his mouth. 


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Adrienne Cools Off, Improbably — In the Gun-Room — A Bargain is Struck — An Increasingly Impassioned Observer_

It was a fact implicitly understood by all who resided at Mount Vernon that certain locations were reserved for Adrienne’s particular and exclusive use. Certainly Alexander was not explicitly barred from entering such places, any more than the groundskeeper was, or Gilbert might have been, but as nobody but Adrienne had any use for the gun-room, the rule was followed to the letter.

After setting her horse to rights she strode across the lawn, and was given an unexpected shock as she opened the door and was set upon by an impatient Alexander. His ready nature had never been more apparent, for he set upon her with such urgency that she momentarily forgot that she had intended only to divest herself of her burden before retiring to her rooms and divesting herself of the waterlogged shirt that clung to her back.

Her skin was clammy beneath the damp linen. How quickly the tonic of cool water fades in midsummer’s wet heat. It was not her intention to bathe in the fishing pond, only that place had looked so very inviting as she rode past it. She doubled back, promising that she would tarry but a moment. It was a hot day and the rabbits would soon be too stiff to skin easily.

The chestnut horse was set to graze in the green grass. Crickets sang a seductive afternoon melody as her clothing formed a small pile beside her feet. Though the water was too shallow for it to be safe, she dove in wearing only her long white shirt. It was bracing, green and blue, and she dunked her head beneath the surface entirely careless of the effect it would have on her hair. Had she bothered to treat it with anything like consideration, it would have been a very fine feature indeed.

To return to the gun-room, the scene was thus: Adrienne stood there, dripping; Alexander radiated impatience. The fulsome white shirt clung damply to her body, whose arresting curvature registered with Alexander not at all. But even as restive as he was, he absorbed the wild state of her. Explosive hair, and wet clothing. The cotton sack she carried from which bulged a dozen tiny carcasses, and one larger. Noticing all that, and taking in her clear agitation at being ambushed — he pressed on.

‘Adrienne!’ he cried out, rushing towards her with outstretched hands. ‘Oh, I am so very grateful to see you. I have been waiting for you to return, and now you are here. I need your help at once. A decision must be made, and I esteem your opinion so highly. Are you able to speak with me about it?’

Once the door was shut, she removed her jacket, having surmised that Alexander could be talking for a while. Out of sack came the fat mallard whose wing had been broken by some unseen predator; she merely finished the job that Nature would have completed in due time. Swiftly, and with a well-aimed gunshot.

As was their habit, Alexander spoke and Adrienne busied herself while he did so. It began with clipping off the feet, which was in itself not so gruesome but the sound was unpleasant. He looked the other way but his ears still absorbed the noise.

‘It is about the carriage,’ he said, looking rather green around the ears as the duck’s head was lopped off. ‘There is room only for one more to travel with Mrs. and Mr. Church. Phillip will sit on a lap, he is small enough to do so, but any more than that and we must engage a second.’

Adrienne cut away the wings and set them aside as well. The duck looked rather pathetic now, a round shape that was still identifiable as waterfowl, or at least would be until the feathers had been plucked. That she began to do at once, with an irritated grunt until a clump peeled back from the breastbone.

‘So my question to put to you is this: should I prepare a second means of transport, in the hope that he will reverse his position and come along with me?’ Now that the duck was further along in its process of transformation, from animal to meat, he found himself able to look in Adrienne’s direction as she worked.

She felt that the process was going as well as could be expected on a hot afternoon. The outer feathers of a duck are smooth to the touch, slightly oily, and make excellent quills. Once the process is begun, the first tear made, they will peel away quick enough. It is the inner feathers, the downy ones, that cover everything and cling to damp skin. Adrienne’s forearms had already begun to itch as she searched for the shot, and were aflame by the time she finished cutting away the scorched flesh around it. It would be an unpleasant thing to chip one’s tooth on.

‘But then,’ he went on, by now hardly queasy at all, ‘if he keeps fast in his refusal, then I will be obligated to take the carriage all by myself. It is a very lengthy journey, and the cost may well be prohibitive.’ Alexander had, clearly, thought about this a great deal. For the record, so had George, but his thoughts consisted primarily of wishing that Alexander would change his own mind, unbidden, without any encouragement on his own end.

Adrienne gave a grunt, which meant she was still listening at least. She was never one for doing a task with only her hands but allowing her mind to wander off elsewhere. No, if she chose to do a thing, then whatever it was merited all her attention.

The fluffy underfeathers were scooped up into a nearby pail for later use. Alexander noticed them with an appreciative eye, for he never wanted for resources in that regard. If she were able to take down a few more birds, a tufted duck or a teal, then he could fashion George a new pillow for Christmas. If he insisted on spending all his time abed, then, Alexander reasoned, he might as well be comfortable.

‘I appreciate your circumspection,’ was all Alexander had to say to her silence. Then he went on, ‘But in actuality I fear he will merely refuse yet again, and it grows tiresome to continue asking. Only,’ and at this he lowered his voice, ‘I have managed to secure an appointment with a doctor who — she specializes in disorders of the — well,’ and he glanced up from beneath his lowered lashes to see her watching him, curiously, a clump of feathers held loosely in her palm.

He knew his own meaning but she plainly did not. His voice grew softer still and he said, ‘This is quite between ourselves, I beg that you do not breathe a syllable of it.’ Unbearable though the confession was, he felt compelled to confide in someone. If he were to be absent for Eliza’s impending wedding then Adrienne should be made aware of the extent to which George was not himself. Otherwise she would be in for a nasty shock. The next words were practically hissed like a quiet curse, ‘Nervous disorders.’

Adrienne was unruffled by this admission, and shrugged her shoulders noncommittally. She had grown up on the fringes of the camp barricades; and had adventures. She had seen plenty in her young life. However, presently she was more concerned at that moment with how long she had before rigor mortis set in for the rest of her haul. The rabbits would have to be skinned and boned out quickly. Since her shirt was more or less dry by now, there was no use in returning to the house to change.

‘Then you will look after him?’ Alexander prodded. She made the proper acquiescence, then, and he breathed a little easier.

But there were more oaths to extract before he left her in peace with her rabbits. He said, smooth as silk, ‘Understand that I have every confidence in your ability, but he must have structure. Without a regular routine I am certain he will go mad.’ It went unsaid that George had been very much on the brink of madness for some time now.

The duck was lifted in one hand by the hole where its neck had once been. She held out the dressed bird to Alexander. _‘Je vais m'occuper de lui,’_ she said, _‘Mais seulement si tu fais cuire le canard aux navets ce soir.’_

He made a face. The turnips were old and spongy, had been since winter. Alexander attempted to protest by complaint, and when that did not work out, with coercion. ‘The turnips are past their best,’ he said, ‘are you sure you would not prefer potatoes? Or green beans, and orange sauce?’

By way of answer, Adrienne wiped her greasy hands on her trousers. Then she dumped out the sackful of rabbits onto the table. Alexander winced at the pile of soft brown fur and clutched the duck tightly in his hand. When she unsheathed a gilt-handled boning knife, he did not require the excuse of the duck — which needed to be scalded in hot water, and any remaining feathers picked out before it could be roasted — to absent himself. Turnips it would be.

 

~*~

 

Hope springs eternal in humankind; it was hope that caused Alexander to engage the second carriage; hope which made him pack George’s trunk and leave it in the front room. It sat there, from the time they had consumed the duck, next to his own trunk. This was crammed with outfits for every possible occasion and circumstance, including summer snowfall, six jackets, ten distinct waistcoats, double that still in stockings, and nearly every pair of shoes he owned, a great surplus which he had amassed over the past few years. There was a smaller baggage that contained a stack of books for Peggy, a customary gift for the groom, John, a small diary for Eliza, printed on fine China paper that was nearly translucent, two jars of best jam for Mr. Schuyler, a scarf for Lady Catherine, handmade, that she would undoubtedly hate without reservation.

He was rather tense at the thought of having his handiwork denigrated, but happy that it would be at the hands of someone whom he had known almost all his life. As with all family relations, his emotions regarding them were complicated, fraught. But in the meanwhile — even after George had refused for the hundredth time, even after Alexander had told their driver not to bother and instead fixed the time with Mr. Church for 8 o’clock sharp on Tuesday — still hope sat there in the form of luggage. 

‘I will send a dispatch every few days,’ Alexander was saying to Adrienne, who humoured his agitation by not pointing out that he was repeating himself. He opened the door and peeked out to see if he could catch sight of them, coming up the drive. ‘And as you have never been a brilliant correspondent —’

 _‘Tu parles un mensonge!’_ she cried, with force that betrayed her hurt feelings. If it had not been for this particular circumstance, then she would have ignored the accusation. But the more it was brought to her attention did she feel herself remiss. It was a fault that she had not noticed George with any particularity, and had left the burden of his care so entirely to Alexander. Over this next month, she would atone. There were even ambitious and misguided plans for her to cook.

‘Well, I am sorry, but you have yet to prove yourself otherwise, though if this particular occasion provides you with the incentive to begin, I will hardly hinder the development.’

Adrienne glowered in Alexander’s general direction but ceased to protest. Contrary to her declaration, she was an abysmal correspondent. Alexander was telling the whole truth, it was merely that she did not wish to hear it.

‘No?’ he replied. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin defiantly.

‘Very well, as you never write me back, I will make the assumption that the _absence_ of a letter means all is well. If you concur then my mind will be better settled than it is at present. Oh, _where_ is the carriage?’ He checked his pocket watch — barely four minutes late, were the Churches. However he was ever so anxious this morning that ever minor delay seemed to portend disaster and the spoilage of the whole.

Forty minutes past the hour they had promised, Mrs. and Mr. Church arrived, with John and Phillip snug beside them. They had been delayed by a lame horse that had to be replaced on quite short notice. They were all happy to see Alexander — greeted him with warm smiles and kind words all around — and this made him feel very gladdened by his choice to go with them. Yet there was no dearth of parting anxiety; even when he had crossed the threshold and was on the verge of stepping up into the carriage, did he glance back in the hopes that George would appear.

The driver made as if to hop down and take Alexander’s case, but Adrienne surprised everybody by heaving it into the back all by herself. Unaided! She flipped the man a silver coin, though he had scarce lifted a finger, and whistled through her teeth at him.

 _'Ce rouan aura besoin d'un repos avant le passage à gué,’_ she said, with a smile that made clear her intended meaning.

The party were settled, and resettled. Shawls were arranged and Phillip’s comfort seen to, and then they were off with waves and smiles. Adrienne watched them go from the front steps. A shatter of gravel arced up from beneath the carriage’s back wheel as it turned about. The horses picked up their hooves as the driver urged them on. Alexander stared through the back window at the receding form of the cold stone estate he now called home, and felt a sadness well up in his chest, for his hopes were dashed beneath the carriage and the horses’ hooves. He wished only that at the last moment George would appear, and the carriage would halt, and the second trunk, packed so lovingly, would be loaded into the second carriage, and hope would blossom into fruition.

The house grew smaller and smaller until it was but a smear upon the horizon, and then they rounded a bend, and went down the hill towards the high road, and he could see it no longer.

 

~*~

 

Adrienne went indoors and looked round her at the kitchen, then sighed and pushed up her sleeves.

 

~*~

 

While Alexander was rushing about and fretting regarding the Churches’ late arrival, George was in bed. He was given over to contemplation and pretense. At the moment he had been lying to himself. It did not matter, he decided, if Alexander went away and left him all alone. Why would anyone want to stay with an old man, a broken soldier, when there was excitement to be had and handsome young men to dance with?

Well, George had asked for solitude. He had only himself to blame. Alexander, who felt unable to give him anything that would cheer him even fractionally, was more than willing to oblige. He ferried cups and plates, and read the papers, same as before, but he also gave himself over to all the hundreds of tasks that would have to be completed before his departure for Monmouth.

Yet as he became more rational, simply owing to the passage of time, George found his senses also beginning to return to him. They did not, however, all return at once and with the same intensity as he had experienced them prior. To give but one example, for the longest time the world had been altogether blurry. Everything in it was cast in a sort of white that was not so much a colour but more the absence of it. And then one day he awoke, and rolled over, and looked down at the blanket which Alexander had pulled up under his chin however long before, and noticed two things very suddenly.

The blanket was no longer a colourless sort of white, but was in fact yellow. George marvelled at this. He poked at the fabric, as if expecting it to shift back into the blankness, but it remained (proudly, resolutely, indisputably) yellow. It was a wretched colour, to boot. 

The second thing he noticed was that the atmosphere in his little room had circled into something well beyond oppressive and was, as a matter of fact, stifling. He noticed this odour, and it bothered him so much that he got out of bed. George cleaned himself with the pitcher that had been placed on a washstand, and found the cold water bracing, if a bit prickly. This activity tired him, and he climbed back into bed, smelling a bit better now. 

But on this morning, he lay there under the yellow blanket, and reminded himself that he did not care. He cared so very little that eventually, despite the pain it caused him, he got up and took himself up the back staircase. This carried the insidious design of further discovery, so that he might watch Alexander climb into the carriage, and feel unloved and betrayed at the departure.

From this perspective at the upstairs window, he was able to discern quite clearly the way his husband was helped into the carriage by Adrienne, who was pushing him up, and John, who was pulling him in. George very much disliked the look of this. The other thing that had come back to him, in full force, was his anger. On the whole, he was an even-tempered man, slow to anger except when it was his duty to enlist that emotion in the service of war. But as of late he was furious all the time, and irritated for no discernible reason. In consequence he stood there glowering through the window until the carriage became a dot, and then a speck, and then it was gone from view, possibly (he thought with resentment) forever.


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A Pause by the Wayside — Adrienne's Attempts at Cookery — George Makes a Decision — Mr. Prevost Invites Alexander to Dance_

For as long as it took for them to travel in the direction of the setting sun, Alexander was caught between two worlds, thoughtful and miserable. He should be there; he wished to be here — perhaps, though, not _here_ in the precise sense of being trapped in a rattling carriage with a small, squirmy child and a heavy heart.

He leaned back against the seat and tried to close his eyes. Monmouth called to him, for how he wished to see Eliza on her most special day! But then he would recall George — his broken stride and his mournful eyes — and his insides dropped to the carriage floor. What would he give for solitude, for quiet reflection. Some space in which to think, and rethink, the choice he had made. But then Mr. Church coughed severely, and in doing so woke Philip, who kicked Alexander in the leg. Despite himself, he winced. The child was small; it hurt only marginally, but sometimes a person will recoil from a mere tap as severely as if they have been struck across the face, and so it was with this.

When they were given cause to break their journey at a wayside Alexander was seized with the impulse to turn around at once. He walked around the outside of the public house to bring feeling back into his legs. By the passing of the sun, he reckoned that they had traveled but a post-journey away from Mount Vernon. Why his own feet could carry him homeward, although the luggage would have to be brought on by cart. Still, it was but a minor complication.

Guilt suffused him. George might have ceased to love Alexander, but surely he still had need of the basic comforts he could supply. It was madness on his part to think he should have gone anywhere at all. Poor husbandry, bad form, recklessness: the list seemed endless — for his duty was at home, by George’s side. What meant he by abandoning his duty? He shuddered to think upon what Lady Catherine was sure to comment to this effect. No, better to turn back and spare himself her critique.

The prickles in his legs had nearly subsided, as he circled the public house and the waiting carriage came once more into view. With this in his sights he was quite on the verge of announcing that he must abandon their plans. But then Mrs. Church swept up beside him, hooked her arm through his in a way that was not dissimilar to a touch he remembered his mother bestowing long ago. She said, ‘If you are quite ready, Alexander?’ Mr. Church, the kindest of men, beamed kindly from where he had already resettled himself, a sleepy-eyed Philip on his. John called cheerfully through the opening in the glass, ‘Do come along, you two! We are expected at Great Bromley for dinner, and I dare say we should not keep the innkeeper waiting.’

His face was open, happy, and had been as the wheels carved still deeper the ruts in the road. It was so pleasant to look at the landscape with Philip. Good for the father to see the world through his child’s eyes — to point out a cloud, a tree, a bend in the horizon — when the son was innocent still; — for with every passing birthday would he become increasingly aware of the limitations imposed upon his sex; — he would not understand why it should be so, for nobody could ever seem explain it cogently, other than to say that was how it had always been, and that tradition was therefore reason for it to always be the same; — he would pose the same query to the clouds and the horizon, though these had no answer; — and eventually he would cease to look at them with wonderment.

However in that moment outside the carriage, none of that had yet to occur. There was no question of Alexander’s turning back without giving offense, and so off they went.

 

~*~

 

It transpired that the lame horse which had delayed the Churches in coming to collect Alexander had a fractured foreleg. As there was nothing to be done for the poor creature, he was sent to meet his maker that very morning. Fortunately for Adrienne, she had a prior acquaintance with their stablehand, who graciously came round with a whole flank for her to have cooked as she wished.

Now had Gilbert been present, then they would have eaten the meat in the French fashion: raw, blue, quivering. Had the cookery been left in Alexander’s increasingly capable hands, then it would have been stewed with onions and wine until it was unrecognizable, and thus palatable to choke down with enough mustard on the side.

Unfortunately, the lot fell to Adrienne to cook the thing. The butchery was simple enough; seven strokes with a serrated knife, and eight cutlets slid into a neat pile on the counter, redly. She located a pan and lit the fire. How difficult could it be in actuality, she wondered, and hummed to herself as she tossed all eight pieces into the pan at once. Satisfied as they hit the iron with a wet sound, she proceeded to roll a cigarette and watch the horseflesh stew.

It smelt well enough, with a meaty aroma that had a whiff of barn about it. Adrienne stood over the stove, poked at it with a long-tined fork, and frowned. Was meat meant to foam from the surface? She stabbed it again, angrily. Blood spilled out from the punctures, exuding juice until the flesh itself was as gray and tough as shoe leather.

Put onto a plate it only looked more abysmal. She pushed back her hair, and made a noise of dissatisfaction. Then she remembered a trick, how she had seen Alexander cover his mistakes with a garnish of parsley, radishes trimmed into roses, green onions split and soaked until they curled into lacy fronds. The cigarette, which she had carelessly laid on the countertop, was allowed to burn out as she struggled to mimic his artistry.

 

~*~

 

George had been lying in bed for what seemed to be hours. In actuality, only twenty minutes had passed since he had awoken with the yellow blanket tangled around his bare feet. By the way the light slanted beneath the door, he ascertained that it was later in the afternoon, nearing supper time.

His bed had ceased to be a source of any pleasure. In some ways it hurt to lie in it, not in the least because his feet seemed to be increasingly elevated above his head. To speak plainly, the bed had leaned in such a manner for many months, though this was the first time he had come to notice it with such clarity. Now that it could no longer escape his notice, it caused him undue irritation that he should be made to lie in the slanted bed, which nobody had bothered to fix.

He was in the process of shifting his bulk upon the mattress when the door burst open to reveal Adrienne, whose appearance of distress was as great as he had ever seen it in his lifetime. When he had lain in his sick bed at the Spanish hospital, she had appeared in the guise of an avenging angel: blood-spattered, merciless. Now, her rumpled clothing and tangled hair served only to add to the impression of general anxiety which clung to her like smoke. It unsettled him thoroughly to have her so discomfitted in his room, or even in his room at all.  

Her hands were occupied with a plate, though she seemed distracted, hardly taking notice of that which she carried and thrust upon him. _‘Là,’_ she said, and then she pulled a fork from her pocket and handed it over as well.

Irritation again swelled up within George — for when _Alexander_ brought his dinner it was served on a fine wooden tray, draped with a linen napkin and garlanded with miniature vase of flowers, a wineglass, a small salt-shaker. It looked more appetizing too, even when he had wholly lacked appetite, simply by virtue of the presentation.

This...did not. For a moment George shuddered and sought his yellow blanket. It seemed that the colour had once again drained from the world, leaving what should have been pink and brown and black a bleached-out gray. But no, he saw upon closer inspection, that was simply the overcooked meat.

 _‘Qu'est-ce que c'est?’_ he asked, and poked at the gray mass before him.

She waved a hand noncommittally, and said, _‘C'est la viande, le ragoût de viande.’_ There was a pause in which George could have asked another question, wherein Adrienne might have expounded on the answer. But she instead stood there silent, hands on her hips — so very much the spitting-image of his Martha (his commander, his wife, his first love) that he was scared into submission by the resemblance alone — and it left him no choice but to choke down a bite.

If the dish was unpleasant to look at, then the concoction smelled even worse. Oddly enough, it lacked in taste what it made up for in odour. Worst of all, George had ravenous appetite on that afternoon. His stomach had howled with hunger since the night before, but still he left his evening broth and bread untouched to spite Alexander, and the same with his breakfast. Now he paid dearly for his vindictiveness.

Her keen eyes tracked him to ensure that he ate — for a woman of honour must adhere to her word, and she had made Alexander a promise. When he had chewed, and swallowed, and made an accommodating murmur to properly demonstrate his pleasure, she grinned. It had worked! Why, cookery was pitifully simple after all. Alexander had clearly been seeking attention above all else. Making such a fuss over something that any woman could do, if she wished to do it.

 _‘Bon appétit, Papa,’_ she said with a flourish akin to pride. With a happy flounce, Adrienne vacated the room.

George felt around for the yellow blanket which really, truly, required a wash, and expelled his mouthful into a corner of it. Then he laid the plate aside on his nightstand, as far from himself as he could get it. Already the room smelt vile. He was very nearly horizontal again almost at once, exhaustion upon him. But then, he reasoned, and seeing as how he was already upright, George surmised that it would be very little trouble, really, to see if he might locate a bit of wood in the adjoining room. He had designs to form a shim with which to elevate the head of the bed. It would only take a moment, and then he would return to bed. Only, he might as well wash, while he was up. And the blanket, too, should be replaced with a fresh one.

The thoughts swirled in his mind. He saw himself doing these things, how they made the bed more comfortable, the room more pleasant. The bed would be there, he decided, at the end.

He swung his feet around and placed them on the cold floor.

The cold traveled up his legs and into his knees, and he thought for a moment that it would be better to lie down. 

But then the soles of his feet felt a bit warmer, and the ground solid. He wiggled his bare toes. 

He stood up.

 

~*~

 

Ten full days since they had set out, ten cycles of the sun as it rose in the east and set in the west, and the landscape became once again a thing that had waited in Alexander’s memory for the longest time, and was before his eyes once again. Now it was his turn to exclaim to little Philip. The hills! The rivers! The mill at the crossing! The speckled brown cows, the fluffy black-faced sheep, the sweet smell of hay as it baked in the sunshine! And there, in the distance, the whitewashed house that he remembered as alternatively cramped and snug. There on the doorstep, his family, gathered to welcome him!

What transpired for Alexander at his homecoming? We may tell you that it was Eliza’s great joy to be the first to embrace him. They held one another with the passion of lovers, the intimacy of family, and the comfort that is owed to a great friend after a long interval apart. Her face shone with tears, and then Peggy leapt into his arms, and she cried too, but a little less. Mr. Schuyler kept up a brave face and remarked how fine he looked, how robust. Lady Catherine permitted her hand to be kissed. Mulligan tried to spoil him with attention and pastry, but was later pleasantly surprised to find that his former charge had improved vastly not only in skills but in his willingness to share them. They spent many a pleasant hour together, elbow-deep in flour, engrossed in conversation.

The wedding breakfast was grand despite Eliza’s modest protestations, but she was happy enough to be the center of attention. Tradition dictates that a groom should be modest, but a woman does enjoy dressing up on her wedding day. Angelica made some offhand remarks about how provincial the small church now seemed, and alluded, rather rudely, to how much grander her own company had been. Eliza was patient, quiet, as her sister showed off her son. This she did with all the admiration of a mother who is generally absent, and busy elsewhere, but expects uproarious praise for bothering at all.

Despite attending the wedding without his husband, as a married man Alexander was entitled now to sit in the nave, rather than being sequestered in the balcony with the youths and bachelors. Being counted as kin of the bride he went one step better, and so had an excellent view of the proceedings from the third pew.

Of course the ceremony happened in the usual fashion. There was nothing unique about it.

John Laurens looked very handsome in his bright suit of white cloth, and he flashed teeth to match at all and sundry as he was led down the aisle to stand beside his bride. She, Eliza, wore a shade of red so pale it was more properly a poppy-pink, and her smile at John was broad, so sincere that it cut Alexander to the quick. Witnessing the love that flowed between them, it crept into the witnesses like a very pleasant miasma. When John beamed at his wife as he said his vows, the assembly smiled as a single body, and when Eliza cried her joyful tears even _Lady Catherine_ was observed to sniffle into her handkerchief.

A man’s life begins when he is taken by a wife, this much we all know. And a woman becomes a true citizen when she marries, for it is by showing her ability to support a family that she comes into her own power. Yet there are partnerships where women and men arrive at the fact of their marriage as equals, and better still, as old friends. And this was the case with Eliza and John, who gazed into one another’s eyes with longing, at last unfettered — for the duration of the carriage ride to the public rooms — through the whole of dinner — as the cakes were cut — as they were praised and teased gently in speeches and in toasts. John held onto Eliza’s hand beneath the table, and as they walked to their first dance together as a married couple, he held onto it still.

Though it had been his pleasure to see his sisters and family in private, Alexander found the public aspects of the various visits, parties, and dinners wholly draining. Happy enough to talk under any circumstances, Alexander was unusually circumspect whenever a question was posed regarding General Washington; his health, his whereabouts. Certainly everybody who asked already had the answer — for gossip never travels faster then when people are gathered for a wedding — still they put it to him.

‘Mr. Washington,’ said the elder Mr. Prevost, courteously as he came up upon him. Alexander had just been thinking that he did not wish to answer any more questions about his husband, and here was Mr. Prevost, come to ask him more of the same. 

‘Oh!’ said Alexander, surprised to see him there. It had been rumoured that Mrs. Prevost was elsewhere engaged, and believing the speculation, Alexander’s mind was put at ease. Now he jolted like a man who has only just caught sight of spider at close proximity, lurking under a fold in his bedclothes.

Mr. Prevost then followed with, ‘Mrs. Prevost and Mr. Prevost are travelling and thus unable to join us for this happy occasion.’ He looked about for a tray and the wine which was passed atop it. Absently he said, ‘They send Mr. John Schuyler best wishes, and congratulations to Mrs. Eliza Schuyler.

‘I am glad to hear it,’ Alexander responded, though in truth it was more a sense of relief that they would not be there. The spider, it seemed, was only a bit of black embroidery floss that the cat had chewed and then sicked up.

‘It is a splendid gathering,’ Mr. Prevost continued, looking about still for his refreshment Then he very much surprised Alexander in two respects. First, he did not enquire about George, and secondly, in breaking with all recognizeable protocol he went on to ask, ‘Mr. Washington, as we are both without our chaperones on this occasion, I think we must keep one another company. Will you do me the honour of permitting me to engage you for the waltz?’ 

Chivalry had not been offered Alexander in a long while, and he responded to it as any young man would, with his whole person. From across the room, he saw Lady Catherine eyeing him with scrutiny, careful to see if he would behave in a modest manner, or if he would shame them all.

 Alexander thought of his duty: of George and his sick-bed, of the long, dreary days that would make up the rest of his life. Already he was past his prime. He had gray in his hair, and had to wear spectacles. When he stood before the looking glass in the evening he would try and arrange his chin so it seemed fine and pointed. Running a household tired him, and that was even before he tacked on the labour of writing in the late hours, the earliest hours, when he could snatch a moment here and there for himself and the cause. And no love at the end of it!

If that was to be his fate, then he might as well have a dance.

‘Mr. Prevost, I thank you for your most kind and generous offer. I will do my absolute best to stand in for Mr. Aaron Prevost, though I know his dancing to be far superior to my own in every capacity. But I have only read about this… _waltz,_ you call it?’

However, at that moment they were interrupted when a passed tray of wine finally made its way to their side of the rooms. ‘It is quite the fashion on the Continent,’ Mr. Prevost said, after intercepting it and giving Alexander a glass. He looked much happier to have got it. Then he explained, ‘A different dance from our country dances. And the Polish ambassador has brought it to London. The partners, well. They touch during the dance!’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Alexander, and drank deeply to cover the flush that crept up his neck. Perhaps he had been hasty in agreeing to such a thing. Lady Catherine would be well within her rights to throw him out on his ear. Eliza would be off on her honeymoon, and he doubted Peggy had sway enough to stop her.

Then Mr. Prevost leaned in, as if sharing a great intimacy. ‘Yes, the one partner stands with her or his hand on the other’s waist, and they clasp their free hands as they do a box-step about the room.’

Alexander very nearly swooned to think of this.

‘Mrs. Prevost does not approve, I will have you know. But as she is not here…’

As if on cue, the opening notes of the first waltz were struck. Mr. Prevost finished his cup and extended his hand to Alexander. 

‘Shall we dance?’ he asked.


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Morning After — A Messy Room — George's Memory — Remarks about Eliza_

Who among us is not acquainted with the aftermath of an evening well spent in pleasant company and a goodly amount of port? What woman may say that on such an occasion she abstained most heartily, and so found herself ready to face the morning after with clear eyes and a head free from ache?

Certainly this was not the case in the Schuyler household following Eliza’s wedding. Lady Catherine slept deeply, pleased that she had not had to travel far; Mr. Schuyler awoke many times with moderate indigestion; Peggy had drunk too much on a stomach empty from excitement, and found that her room turned on its axis must faster than the earth’s rotation. John Laurens, now Mr. John Schuyler,  slept in his new wife’s arms, quite cosily, and she in his. Whenever she awoke, for it was strange to have another person there in the bed with her, she would start with surprise. Then she would gaze upon him, her heart full to bursting with the realization that she could begin every morning like this, his curls splayed across her upper arm, his breath soft in sleep.

As for Alexander, he had been temperate enough in his consumption to recall the night before clearly and with fondness. Having woken up in the little bed that he had once shared, he lay there for a time and called to mind everything important that he would communicate to George in a letter that same day. There had been ices, very nice ones with herbs, and the new fashion seemed to be for fabric buttons on men’s jackets, even the most formal ones seemed free from extraneous ornament. And then, he could scarce forget, there was the matter of the foreign dance called the waltz.

Now it was Alexander’s turn for the room to spin as he recalled it. The opening sounds of the strings and piano softer, more inviting than a country dance. How the chosen partners stepped right up against one another — women with their husbands or men they were courting, and the odd ones out paired together willy-nilly, with absolutely no regard for sex or precedence! How novel it had been, to have a warm hand on the small of his back with others watching. How intimate, and missed the touch of another man had been. The bed was small, however, and lumpy enough to interfere with Alexander’s continued daydreams. It was barely gone seven when he rose and headed for the kitchens.

 

~*~

 

While the inhabitants of South End sat down to lunch, George was still abed, pushing his porridge about with his spoon. The bowl’s contents were unfortunately, not decreasing. Rather it seemed that the more he ate — that is, around the black chunks that he hoped were only scorched bits from where Adrienne had wandered away and left the pan unattended — with every mouthful he choked down the amount of porridge in the bowl seemed to remain more or less constant. Somewhere, there is a brilliant mathematician who, with complex calculations and the accompanying diagrams, might be able to explain why the worse something is the longer it seems to last, whereas with something nice — such as chocolate cake, or a bracing Cheddar — there never can be enough to satisfy.

George, who was no mathematician, merely swallowed the last unpleasant mouthful. He set the bowl aside. His side table was cluttered with the remnants of a week’s worth of meals. Now to look at it, the situation struck him as rather untidy. He took in the room with fresh eyes, and noticed that it all seemed as unkempt as could be. Someone should take care of it.

Momentarily the idea flashed before him that it did not matter how untidy his bedroom might be. What was a mess, really? Did it even matter?

The past weeks had been a precarious time in George’s life, which was itself a span of great length and consequence. But it seemed to belong to another man, that prior existence. Who had he been, before? Had he truly loved once, twice in that time? Was he brave, a good man, a valued soldier, a commander of underlings? To speak plainly, he could hardly recollect what sort of person he had been all his life. But that is a reality caused by soldiering. For that it does not matter who you are, but only what you do and who you might kill in the process.

It was death that he saw when he closed his eyes. This which roared to life in his dreams, and caused him to sweat, gnash his teeth, cry out in the nighttime. Since his return to Mount Vernon and his removal to the small, private room, mornings saw George awaken, look about at the four gray walls, and merely close his eyes against it. The detritus mattered not; nothing had any meaning, nor consequence. All he might do was hope that one day his eyes would fail to open and he would be at last spared the dismal horror brought about by awakening.

A soldier walks in the company of death, for it cannot be otherwise. This is why they laugh, and drink, and take lovers from among their own company without a thought for the morrow. This is why the rules of society have no bearing on an encampment of enlisted men. For death, that pale lady, will be there all the while, to laugh and drink and fornicate alongside them. Jarring, then, for a soldier to return to our world, then, where none of this is done freely. Even more of a shock to find the pale lady there as well, wearing fine silks and a toothsome smile, her hand outstretched when the lights go out.

George sat for a long while in the bed in her company, his head in his hands. He thought that he had preferred the gray and the numbness to remembering. Memories rushed upon him — a young infantryman, barely eighteen, who had thought George a hero and mimicked his bravado during a dawn attack. He had looked around, to attract notice, and in doing so took a bullet in the chest that knocked him from the back of his horse. When it was all over, George had the habit of returning to the scene of battle to find his lost men. Some he retrieved for the medics, some he prayed over, and some — whose guts had spilled out and stained his red coat even darker — he bayonetted himself, to spare them further pain. It was this young man who haunted his dreams, as George watched the fading light in his dark eyes over and over again. 

But the mind needs purpose if it is to heal. He looked up at the pile of cups, and forks, and unwashed dinner plates that Adrienne had failed to remove, and with a sigh, began to deal with the mess himself.

 

~*~

 

The Schuylers spent a pleasant day in congratulations and reminiscences, already transforming the events of the previous evening into narratives that would become part of the family tapestry. How lovely Eliza and John had looked at the banquet, how happy! How delightfully scandalized they had all been by the waltz! How vexed Mrs. Adams had seemed as the evening wore on! What fun!

This lasted all the way through dinner, after which the youngest among them found shared purpose in packing Eliza’s trunk. John was entertaining the others in the drawing room, and his melodious voice could be heard over the frenetic rustle of fabrics.

‘It is not like you to wait until the last moment,’ Alexander observed, as he picked over the pile of ribbons that lay on the bed where Angelica had once slept, which was lately given over to Eliza, and now would be turned over to Peggy to enjoy as she saw fit. They were silky as they slid through his fingers: a red one, bright as George’s military coat; a pink one, the precise shade of the wedding dress that Eliza had insisted was red enough for tradition; a brown one, which called to mind Adrienne’s chestnut horse; a pale blue-gray that mimicked the stones from which Mount Vernon had been hewed. How odd, that something as inconsequential as a ribbon should call to mind all his history and entanglements.

Peggy, who was not inclined to sentimentality, leaned over and scooped them all up into both her palms. Without a word she dumped them unceremoniously into Eliza’s open trunk. ‘She had done,’ she informed Alexander, with a disapproving glance in her sister’s direction, ‘wouldn’t you believe it. Everything packed and put away <i>days</i> before the wedding. Only lasted a few hours before she undid it all. You would have liked to have seen it, clothes everywhere! I thought Father would throw a fit, for they had thought to send the luggage on ahead.’

‘Peggy!’ Eliza exclaimed, ‘that will be quite enough of your falsehoods.’ With these words she removed the red ribbon and the brown one from the mess, folded them neatly and placed them atop her dresser. She gave them a kind pat, as if to indicate that she did not mean to leave them behind, only that she had limited space in the trunk. The pat seemed a reassurance that she would return for them directly.

Peggy snorted through her nostrils and flopped down onto the bed. The movement lifted Alexander up a fraction, and he could not help but smile. Eliza darted to and fro, pausing only long enough in her activity to mutter to herself.

‘I cannot see what has her so agitated,’ Peggy observed in Alexander’s direction. ‘It is not as if John cares what lick what she wears.’ Then she shook her head with disapproval.

Alexander laughed; it could not be helped. Peggy had a way of speaking quite directly that called to mind Lady Catherine, but with an altogether gentler temperament. It felt good to be in her company, better still to laugh again. A jest of his own seemed in order. He waited until Eliza had her back turned and then lowered his voice, saying, ‘Very true, Peggy. I am certain they will spend more time out of their attire than in it.’

At this Peggy’s eyes grew round and wide, and once she had absorbed the sense of this remark, was obligated to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing. Eliza missed all this, but she noticed the strange coughing fit which seemed to have overtaken her younger sister. Even in the midst of packing for her honeymoon, she was always putting others first. Thus though her hands were occupied with sorting through her hairbrushes — Should she bring her finest one? What if it went missing, as items almost always do on a journey? Perhaps second best would do. Did she really need quite so many hairpins? Would her bonnet be sufficient for country walks, or did she require the extra layer provided by a sturdy hat  —still she managed to say, without looking up, ‘I hope you are not ill, Peggy. The church did seem rather cold yesterday.’

‘No,’ Peggy said at once, with a sly grin aimed at Alexander, ‘I am fine, Eliza.’

‘Well,’ Eliza said — having at last decided to bring the best hairbrush and every hairpin she owned, for the sake of her own sanity, in addition to two bonnets and one second-best hat — ‘Especially after the hot weather we have been having, it can be such a shock to sit in a drafty room. Have Mulligan fix you a tisane before bed. And you as well, Alexander. I would not have you ill while we are in London. There is so much to do and see!’

Peggy made a face, which caused Alexander to burst out laughing yet again. This time the noise agitated Eliza enough that she looked up from her trunk at Alexander, who found himself very suddenly overcome with the desire to examine Eliza’s bedroom. In his absence it had been transformed only moderately; Eliza shared Angelica’s taste to the extent that only some of the frills had been removed and the more outlandish paintings replaced with subdued watercolours depicting birds (painted by John, naturally, who had an eye for such things).

It was to one of these which Alexander, rising from his place on the bed, now turned his close attention. John was a lucky man, insofar as he had both natural talent and a mother who indulged his artistry with lessons, books, and the tools necessary for expression. This particular painting was, as these things go, innocuous enough. Its subject was a robin perched on a slim willow branch, with black eyes that looked off into the middle distance as if anticipating a predator. John had managed to capture simultaneously the sense of repose all animals have when they are not being watched, and the human sadness which comes from our perspective, in knowing that their time is short. 

‘I will go and fetch some,’ Alexander said to the two sisters, turning away from the painting. The robin looked out, plaintive. ‘But you must meet me in the drawing-room, for I have so missed John’s singing.’

Eliza put her hands on her hips. ‘Very well,’ she said, inspecting the overstuffed trunk. Then she added, ‘Peggy, for goodness sake, help me close the lid.’


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _History Repeats Itself — Two Companions in Quiet — At the Physician's Office — Expensive Advice_

Owing to their short lifespans, ordinary people tend not to see themselves as instantiating broader patterns in the stream we call history. They know how things are more or less supposed to work: a girl is born, she becomes a woman, she marries, enters a profession, bears children, takes a companion, and hopefully lives long enough to see the cycle repeat itself several times over. Characteristics reassert themselves over the generations, so a daughter’s stubbornness might recall the woman’s own mother, perhaps going even further back to her mother — just as over-large ears, weak fingernails, an inability to sit still, or a propensity for clumsiness can be handed down through reproduction.

Woe to the woman who finds that her temperament does not fit her epoch; the same is true, to a lesser extent, of beauty. But hardly anybody would deny that some women flourish simply by virtue of being alive at the time which happens to suit them, whereas others — had they been born a hundred years in either direction — might have been able to achieve ever so much more.

Had Adrienne, for instance, come of age during our heroic period, then it seems fair to speculate that her short life would have become the stuff of legend. Certainly she looked the part, with a most handsome face and a body that would have radiated strength in mail and chain. She could fight, truly, and (like her own mother) would always have led the charge into the fray. Whether she would have been able to adhere to the model provided by courtly love, in code and constraint, should be left for the discerning reader to decide.

It was easy to imagine her there, a knight errant in search of an oath, as her lean stride carried her up a small hillock and nearer to the brush. Her long gun was broken across her forearm, and she carried it with gallantry, as if she were bearing a shield. A few steps behind her trudged the man who fit quite aptly his role as faithful standard-bearer. He led her horse, across whose back was slung a sack stuffed full with pheasant. His gait was steady, albeit uneven owing to the slight drag caused by the slowness in his right foot.

The two figures walked in silence. Neither person was inclined to speak much, and this suited them very well. Their thoughts were keenly focused on reaching the pub before the sun disappeared behind the clouds and the cold set in.

Adrienne had thought the expedition a general success. George had very much disliked the gun’s infernal report (and whoever could blame him?) yet his tasks — to reload her ammunition, beat the perimeter with a large club, and finally collect what she shot down — had soothed his body with their repetition. And when the body is calm, then the mind will follow. At least, this is the case for some.

 

~*~

 

The door was a regular sized. Therefore it should not have been imposing in the slightest, but behind every new door stands possibility, and that alone can make sensible people afraid to knock. This door was covered in black paint so thick that it appeared to be lacquered, and like a very old leaden mirror cast back the fuzzy outline of Alexander’s shape as he stood on the threshold. His chequebook burnt a hole in his coat pocket, and every few moments he was obligated to pat down that area to make sure it had not suddenly chosen to absent itself from his person. The same was true for the letter of introduction that John had given him.

He rang the bell once, twice, three times. Then he used the door knocker, and when that still produced no response, rapped at the door with his gloved knuckles. When _that_ also failed to bring anybody to the door, he tried the handle and — seeing as how the door did indeed open inward — slipped inside before he could convince himself to do otherwise. After all, he had come all this way.

Alexander’s heels clicked as he walked across the parquet flooring. From behind a closed door he heard voices — two women, from the sounds of it — and so decided that they had simply not heard his attempts at entry. It was left only to remain in readiness for his presence to be acknowledged, and while Alexander was by nature impatient, he had grown much better at waiting. He removed his gloves and placed them in his pocket, checking once again to make sure his letter and his means of payment were both still there. Then sat down, slid his palms down the slick fabric of his breeches, and folded his hands.

A good surgeon will keep a person waiting until they are nearly mad with the vexation it causes, and will almost always appear just before they are on the verge of vacating the premises and promising to never return. The more desperate the patient, then the likelier they are to stay put. Alexander was only moderately desperate to see this doctor; had George been with him as he had planned, then it would have been altogether urgent. As matters currently stood, he had thought it a courtesy to keep the appointment, though he naturally assumed that a secondhand report would be of little use in diagnosis.

Some time later a bustle behind the door indicated that the current examination was coming to a close. When the door opened to reveal two women, just as Alexander has suspected, it took him a moment to discern which might be the doctor and which the patient, since they both glared at him until he lowered his gaze. Then more scuffling sounds, skirts sweeping across the inlaid floor, a sniffle from one of the two — indicating that she had been weeping — and calm words from the other. Then the sticky noise that came from pulling the paint-thick door free from its frame and closing it again.

The shorter of the two women then reappeared before Alexander. He stood, hastily.

‘Yes, yes,’ she said with a blustering air, not bothering to introduce herself. A good physician can dispense with all the markers of polite society and still be much in demand. ‘And you would be?’ She turned back into the main office; Alexander, not knowing what else to do, followed her obediently. She stripped off the gloves she had used for the previous patient’s examination and tossed them into the fireplace, where they caught fire and sent bluish smoke up into the room. Alexander pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and coughed into it, eyes watering. The doctor was unaffected.

‘Hamilton,’ he said, once he had managed to quell the fit. He cleared his throat, wiped his eyes, and with greater composure stated, ‘My name is Alexander Hamilton, if you please. I have an appointment, although in this case I must apologize profusely, for when it was arranged — what I wish to say, is that my brother-in-law, Mr. John Schuyler, husband to the junior minister Mrs. Angelica —

‘Ah,’ said the doctor, interrupting, and peered down the bridge of her nose at him. She wore spectacles, he noticed now, and tended to look over the top of them at things which were in the middle distance, though they were necessary for objects which were located far away. She had a separate _lorgnette_ hanging round her neck, which was handier for examining things that happened to be close at hand.

After studying Alexander for a moment she walked very purposefully around to her desk, from which she lifted a teetering paper tower. Under this was to be found — quite miraculously — the original letter that John had written to her all those months ago.

‘If it please you, Madam —’ Alexander began, holding out that letter’s counterpart, John’s thoughtful introduction, whereupon she raised one finger with which to indicate that he should remain silent. When that had been read through to the end, the doctor retreated behind her desk, the top of which, in addition to the stacks of paper, was cluttered with various objects: a number of small, round dishes, where blue, white, and green moulds were being cultivated; a gold-plated letter opener with a decorative pineapple for a handle; a model version of a woman’s breast carved from ivory, away from which Alexander hastily averted his eyes; no fewer than three teacups and at least one empty wineglass; a single banana, quietly liquefying where it was wedged beneath a thick medical journal, forgotten about during a busy lunch hour some days ago; and a row of shelves subdivided into small compartments, each stuffed full with small slips of paper.

‘Hamilton,’ she muttered aloud to herself, ‘Hamilton, Hamilton.’ The muttering accompanied a whispery sound as she rifled through the pages. These had been organized according to a logic so idiosyncratic that no other person had come along who was able to learn it, which went a long ways in explaining why she could not retain an assistant for any length of time.

She flicked through the bits of paper until she located Alexander’s own inquiry — skimmed this perfunctorily — and then having satisfied herself regarding the case before her — extended a hand, indicating the burgundy divan. They sat and faced one another. ‘Mr. Hamilton’ she said, quite calmly. Having read the necessary bits of paper she did not need to examine them ever again, for her memory retained the details perfectly. ‘This is regarding your husband?’

‘Yes,’ Alexander answered. He wished to be polite, but even more so he desired honesty. ‘He is not himself, I think. It has been a strange time, for he was away for ever so long. At times it seems that I imagined it, but I remember how he was before; prior to the injury, and the interval.’

‘I see,’ she replied, ‘and now he is — for lack of a better term, _lackluster_?'

Alexander nodded his assent. She continued, 'It is a common enough state of affairs after a difficult time. People simply do not see it for what it is. Women suffer very quietly when this is the case.' 

She spoke very forthright, for it would not have occurred to her not to believe him. Women like to think that men exaggerate for attention, which is a ridiculous notion when examined closely, at least when they are seeking help on someone else’s behalf. Dutiful husbands made pilgrimage to this doctor, fearful and concerned by what mothers and sisters and aunts and friends had chosen to ignore, and she prided herself on believing what they had to say.

Alexander recoiled, almost on instinct. ‘Thus you think a man unworthy of your care,’ he said, aghast at her evident condescension.

The doctor scoffed aloud at the suggestion. ‘I think nothing of the sort, Mr. Washington. Ask anybody, and they will tell you. Men suffer it too. The treatment I suggest for women differs only in its cause, for men do not give birth. As a society we are so enamoured of the fact that life is being bequeathed — and it is miraculous, that I grant you, but we are in the end but animals, and all animals reproduce in accordance with nature — that we are inclined to forget that giving birth is a kind of trauma. A bit like a wound inflicted in war, certainly. That is one way to look at it, and the approach I have always taken. It seems disingenuous to pretend otherwise.' 

‘Oh,’ said Alexander, a bit shocked. He knew the business was messy, bloody. Certainly that it was dangerous. But to think of George’s wounds as being of the same magnitude as childbearing was simply unheard of, or that they might cause a similar illness in the soul. 

‘A damned shame it is too,’ she blurted out, almost to herself. Upon seeing that Alexander did not quail at the curse, she narrowed her eyes at him, as if by failing to react he had risen in her estimation. More sympathetically, she spoke again. ‘In truth it is a failing of our medical establishment, Mr. Hamilton, and certainly not anything that is widely discussed.’ 

Then he asked, for he was genuinely curious. ‘Have you treated men for this condition? You spoke just now of women only.’

‘It is not identical,’ said the doctor, with a small frown. Her mind was working a complex problem that it was on the verge of solving. Soon enough the condition would be named after her as the one who first identified it; but that comes later. Here she pushed her spectacles higher on the bridge of her nose. ‘For the root causes are utterly distinct. But the effects — the lethargy, irritation, loss of appetite — are similar enough for me to treat men, too. Granted, I do not see many. Women tend to assume it is mere  _orcheisia._ Asilly word with absolutely no medical basis in fact, describing absolutely nothing at all, and so fail to take seriously that which may in fact be fatal.’

Fatal! Heaven forefend it ever proceeded along that path. ‘Then you will help him?’ Alexander said, almost a plea. ‘Only, I do not know what else to do or where to turn.’

The doctor stood up and found a small blue-covered volume that was on her desk, buried beneath loose papers, a broken quill, and an upended hourglass. ‘You will help him, Mr. Hamilton, and you will do this by heeding my advice. The treatment is simple enough, but it depends on strict adherence to what I tell you now, and following the relevant sections in this volume. Fresh air,’ she said, opening the book and tapping a page decisively. ‘Simple food. And exercise, as much as he can stand.’

‘Stand!’ snapped Alexander, again taken aback by the suggestion. How rude could any single person be? He spoke freely, face hot. ‘Why, the man cannot walk! It is a fine thing of you to suggest such a course of action, but I fail to see how he will be able to take any exercise at all in his invalid state.’

‘He does not need to,’ she said, ‘or at least not to start with.’ Then she communicated that he would be required to have a chair made to order according to her specifications, in which he was to take Mr. Washington out no less than three times a day, so that he might have a change of scenery and fresh air. Four separate emotions sought purchase on Alexander’s face when he heard the cost that she wished him to leave as a deposit for this contraption.

‘Let me look into it,’ he said, heart racing when he thought about his bank balance, 'and then I will contact you directly when I have obtained his measurements.’

‘See that you do without delay,' she said, rising again. 'Thank you for coming in. May we both be gratified in the ease with which this case will be resolved.' He went to kiss her hand, to pay her the proper respect as a man should with a woman, but she cut short his deference and instead held out hers for him to shake. He hesitated, with his elbow hovering by his hip — surely she misjudged the situation — but the doctor was resolute. Then, when Alexander was still floating at being able to partake in this equal display — to shake hands as women do! — she raised the matter of the bill. 

This brought him back to solid earth at once. Sound advice rarely comes cheap, and custom equipment does not purchase itself. Fortunately, the next day he was able to exchange a few short finished pieces with Mr. Jefferson, in return for a tidy sum in sterling, a new romance from an Italian author that was missing from his collection, and a bottle of only slightly chalky Malbec.


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Home to Mount Vernon — Advice, Mostly Heeded — The Man in the Tall Grass —Mutual Recognition_

Alexander’s thoughts were steady in the carriage that jolted him homeward. Certainly the physician had given him much to consider, and though she had condescended to him fully, she had not treated him as if he were entirely stupid. That had to count for something, he supposed.

It was the sort of autumn afternoon where the sun is making a valiant effort to fight the days’ shortening by shining as ferociously as possible in the time when it is overhead. It washes out the blue sky into white; its light glints off every weathervane and watering hole. Wheat shines high in the fields, its waving fronds touched golden by the afternoon sun. Across the countryside the harvest was already well underway. From Alexander’s bench seat on a fast-moving carriage the whole scene merged into a blur.

The book the doctor had sold him (at dear cost) proved difficult to parse, even with the aid of the medical dictionary that Mr. Jefferson fortunately had in stock. No doubt should remain in your mind, gentle reader, that Alexander was clever, cleverer even than many women alive today. Yet what use was his tremendous intellect when he was forced to look up every fourth word? Even with all his years of pilfered Latin and Greek lessons the meanings were forgotten instantly as soon as he had read through the entries.

What he had gathered, from their brief conversation and the illegible notes scribbled in the book’s margins, was that George needed precisely the opposite of what Alexander had been offering. Quiet and coddling would simply isolate him still further. Fresh air, sunshine, and being out-of-doors would cure what solitude could not. Plain food, and plenty of it to build back up his resilience. He would have liked for her to examine George personally, but nonetheless he was hopeful that all would turn out for the best. It was odd to hope, but with a path laid before him he felt cheered at the prospects which action demanded. If it meant that he was required to banish from his mind the inevitable consequences that would arise when George was recovered fully, and thus to be returned to the war, then he would simply carry on in ignorance.

To this effect, it should be observed that the nefarious interloper Charles Lee — who was enjoying his temporary elevation immensely, especially now that he had figured out a way to use the command position for personal profit — had on several occasions interfered in measures which would have seen George return to the field. Thus we should rest assured that Alexander’s current and future happiness was not presently under threat. He was himself unawares of this fact, and yet found it more possible than before to concentrate all his efforts on increasing George’s fortitude, whatever the consequences. 

Hedgerows, stone fences, tree-lined drives all fluttered past. He was tired from his journey, anxious to be home. Excited to see George and tell him everything that had transpired. Relieved to be back in Sussex, for the time away had given him over to understand that South End was merely a place where he had once resided and Mount Vernon — for all its foibles and peculiarities — was his home now.

Soon he would kick off his shoes and soak his feet. Later on he would have a bath. Briefly, he entertained the memory of the times when George had washed his hair with gentle pressure and absolutely no urgency at all. But perhaps, he reasoned to himself, that was simply what happened in the early days of a marriage. He should have thought to ask Mr. Schuyler if he still washed Lady Catherine’s hair — though an affirmative response would horrify him to contemplate, a negative one would send him into a paroxysm of sadness — better he had not asked at all.

They would be home soon, and Alexander, as usual, would have much to say. A speech should be practiced in one’s head before it is delivered, and will be all the better for such rehearsal. If the speech-maker is truly committed, then they might do as Alexander did and speak aloud as a form of practice. This, you will recall, was a longstanding habit when it came to his work, and he saw no reason why he should not apply it to the current circumstances, seeing as how he had the carriage to himself and the driver was seated too far away to discern the words’ sense.

He composed his features into an expression that was meant to convey concern and said, ‘Therefore, George, be it known that there is no shame in your having been so maudlin. I was, in this regard, at least partially to blame, and though I do not think you helped matters by refusing to speak with me on more than one occasion when in all honesty my intentions were wholly honourable—’

Here he stopped. Frowning, Alexander considered the wording he had chosen, then flipped open the book in his lap until he located the footnote he had in mind. Reading it through to refresh his memory (and consulting the dictionary alongside) he found that it offered a way forward. Contrary to all commonsense wisdom, rather than making appeals to reality as it plainly stood — the sky is blue, the sun is shining, the grass is tall — when reasoning with a melancholic a person was required to center the conversation onto their own thoughts and feelings. Alexander did not entirely see the sense of it, but the doctor had insisted that he heed her advice. _To the letter,_ were her words. If that was what it took.

The landscape rattled by and at last the hillock upon which Mount Vernon stood began to swell up from the earth. They were almost home. Behind the dry stone fence that marked the boundary between the grand house and the surrounding farms, Alexander could discern the far edge of the estate: the weathered timber outbuildings that were still used for agricultural purposes. As they passed it seemed to Alexander that the stones which had fallen down over the past few winters had been put back into place. Many hedges, too, appeared neater, but that might simply have been a matter of perspective at having been gone a while. False memory can play tricks on even the cleverest person.

He straightened his spine and set his chin in a manner that always fortified his confidence. If he failed to make his point on the first go-round then George’s current disposition was so intractable that he would be denied a second attempt. The horses marched along, feet held high. Alexander tried once more, with modifications this time. ‘George. It has been very painful for me to see your unhappiness and to feel as though I were somehow to blame for it. My intentions may have been honourable, but I did a tremendous disservice in permitting you to wallow — to linger — to suffer— unchecked. When we should have spoken together, I alone dictated the terms of your convalescence. For this I must repent at once, for make no mistake, I am unerringly grateful to have you here, whatever the condition of your person —’

The driver spurred the carriage on, the horses’ breath growing louder as they mounted the hill. From its position high in the sky the angry autumn sun beat down upon the back of a labourer. Alexander paid him no mind; as we have already noted, it was haying and harvest season. Men were everywhere in the fields, working to get the shock and fodder in before the first frost. 

Quickly before he was in the same room with his husband and the words foresook him from nerves, Alexander tried yet again. Practise, only but he must practise. Then it would be a matter of mere repetition. Apology rolled off Alexander’s tongue more easily the following time around. ‘George, allow me to apologize for giving you short shrift since your return. It must be unnerving to be here with me instead of Martha — instead of your dead wife — instead of Mrs. Washington — instead of the General — Mrs. Washington — your wife, the General Mrs. Washington — and to have me an interloper in his house you shared for a short time. We have never spoken of her, but I desire it be known that I call her to mind often. If you would wish to share it with me, perhaps you might recount your own remembrances to me. Please rest assured that I am all gratitude for your having brought me here so that my life might begin. I vow here and now to take on whatever burdens you now bear. George, I swear it; I will lighten your load.’

(Regarding the speech; while it could use some improvement in the delivery, the sentiment was genuine.) 

Wheels turned, dust whizzed up from beneath them. Another bend was rounded, drawing the lone figure closer into view. Alexander glanced up, general disinterest turning to attention when he noticed that the man was stripped bare to the waist. Completely shirtless — understandable in haying season — men scattered everywhere — very hot it must be in the sunshine — a class of person that his own status rendered invisible — but indeed he could see very clearly — what harm could it be to look?

Venial desire said that merely looking could do no lasting harm. It was merely a peasant engaged in hard labour; why, the man would be too engrossed in his physical activity to sense the weight of Alexander’s gaze across his broad backside. Besides, he was on his way to have a difficult conversation and needed all the fortifications he might obtain in the meantime.

Most women look at men. Only a complete fool would contest the fact. When dressed in their finest ensembles then their bodies and features are laid forth for our general enjoyment like fine dishes at a grand banquet. A cutaway frock coat sets off a fine set of shoulders, an embroidered waistcoat calls attention to a trim waist, while the front placket of silk breeches cannot but draw the eye downward still further. If one stops there then she will miss the way a coat flares the elegant lines created by tall shoes, the protuberance of a shapely calf. A banquet differs from a regular meal insofar as each lady may sample whatever she wishes in any quantity — in dainty nibbles or rude mouthfuls — and decorum relaxes ever so slightly. But we are always paying attention, the same way a woman must dine three times a day, keeping banquets for the most special occasions only.

Once women are married, then they take a certain enjoyment in admiring other women’s husbands from afar. Remember that they talk openly amongst themselves regarding the young men who will soon come of marriageable age; it is likewise not unheard of for a lady to recommend a certain sort of gentleman for an evening’s entertainment to a bosom friend. Labourers, though are beyond the pale. One would have to be stupid, desperate, mad, or all three at once to even consider they who work the fields, the docks, the barges; who hoist laundry, slop pails, and bake bread. They exist like oxen, strong, necessary, but ungracious and too brutal to enjoy. 

Perhaps for a man who was inclined like Alexander the sentiment would not hold true. Perhaps he would prefer the rough communal dish to _haute cuisine_. His childhood fascination with soldiers was but part of the complex calculus that explains desire, if it is to be explained at all. 

Alexander could not recall that he had seen this man before, although his eyesight was much deteriorated these days and he was not entirely convinced he was a stranger. It fell to him to understand their neighbourhood, and most everybody he knew by name. When there was work to be done on a nearby estate, then the steward might contract out the services of another landowner’s labourers to complete a large task. However if that were the case, then there should have been at least three men working alongside one another, up to five or six for a big job. This was but one man, alone in the field, who swung his scythe with fierce determination — as if in cutting down the tall grass he was savagely removing the heads of his enemies. When the blade knocked against the stalks a few wheat grains floated aloft momentarily. They stayed there, suspended, and then clattered down with the rest. 

As they wound their way up the drive, the horses strained at the reins. They seemed to sense that their journey was almost at an end. Only a few hundred yards would see Alexander deposited on his own doorstep, and then they would have sweet hay, and a stable, and a day to rest.

His bare head shone back the brutal sunshine. Though his top half was nakedly exposed, still his white shirt was tucked into his long trousers. It hung like a sail on a ship becalmed, limp and useless around his knees. As for his trousers, these were a sandy colour and ill-fitting, almost as if they had once belonged to a larger man. The shirtsleeves dangled from his sides as he lifted the scythe and swung it laterally across the tall grass, burnt the colour of pale straw by the sun.

It was a bright day rather than a hot one, but still Alexander’s forehead pricked with sweat to see how overtaxed the man must be. Hard work it is, to swing a scythe under the sunshine, even if the air is cool. Heaven knows he could not do it. A man would quickly grow heated with the exertion, and as he appeared to have the fields all to himself, would be well within his rights to allow for greater comfort by removing an article or two of his clothing. Quite sensible, now that he considered the matter more closely. Yes, his back was streaked with sweat, and the muscles of his bare arms glistened as the light bounced off of them.

The carriage rushed past. Horses’ hooves kicked up clouds of dust as they cantered down the lane. Through the rising cloud, Alexander saw a stooped brown back turned to him, and thought it was familiar. George, whose back it indeed was, turned around at that precise moment. So occupied he had been with his task that he had failed to take note of the carriage until it was nearly past him.

His mouth curled into a small moue. Alexander had written to Adrienne that he would be returning home, but as Adrienne had been keeping peculiar hours and he had hardly had sight of her, she had failed to pass along this vital information.

Thus it was that George and Alexander’s eyes met just above the line demarcated by the dust and the waving top of the grass which had yet to be cut. Alexander clutched at the window with his fingertips. George straightened himself up, slowly, and lowered the scythe to his side, breathing heavily. The carriage turned sharply to the left, and George’s bare, heaving chest was gone from view.


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Arrival — Greeting — Eruption — Aftermath_

To Alexander’s great disappointment, when he arrived home nobody was there to greet him. Adrienne was at the pub (more aptly in the lodgings above it) with the stablehand who had provided the horsemeat. Another individual who frequented the place had (very considerately) looked in as well. Bored with solitude, we cannot fault her for these pursuits, as Gilbert had been away on business long enough for her to seek other entertainments.

George, well. As for that man, he was outside. Clearly — nakedly, unabashedly! — engaged in fortifying labour. Without even hearing the doctor’s prescription (fresh air, exercise, sunshine) he had somehow contrived to enact it unaided. And how! The impressions were burnt upon Alexander’s vision, such that his immediate surroundings had little definition. The house, the drive — these were but a general blur. Realer and more present were the sun’s slanted rays, throwing their light upon George and casting the chaff which swirled languidly down to his feet into shadow.

Absorbed in his remembrance which had happened only a moment ago, Alexander blinked when the carriage came to a stop. There was the house, its façade coloured golden by the setting sun. Alexander sulked in the house’s general direction but the warm stones failed to recognize his bitter mood. His face thus soon relaxed into more regular composition.

The driver pulled down his luggage and left it inside the doorway. Alone, Alexander did what all sensible people do after they have had a long journey, which is to go to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

Three-quarters of an hour later he was seated at the dining table. Tea had been had, and he had also kicked off his too-tight shoes and was currently reading the newspaper. More accurately, he was looking at the newspaper but practising the speech intended for George in his mind. Occasionally bits of this speech would be spoken aloud to the empty room. All in all, the phrasing seemed to be improving.

At long last the front door creaked open. Alexander looked askance. He hoped it was George, seeing as how he was nearly ill from anticipation alone. Waiting had never been his strong suit. Inside, his stomach roiled and churned. The newspaper crumpled in his hands as they trembled from agitation. By the footfalls, he could discern that it was neither Gilbert nor Adrienne returned from her outing, and so it must be his husband. This bit of reasoning proved true when the man himself came into the dining room, through which he was obligated to pass on his way to the bedroom.

First to appear was his head, unmistakable in its distinctive shape and baldness. Then the upper torso which — Alexander saw with chaste regret — had been covered up again with the white linen shirt. However his throat was uncovered, the neck and flesh below it beckoning enticingly from the top as it gaped open. It was on this spot that his attention stuck, which meant that when George’s eyes darted up to see if Alexander had noticed him, from his perspective it seemed that the other man was studiously trying to avoid such a connexion.

Determined not to show his irritation, George moved through the room carefully and deliberately. It was Alexander’s place to make the overture, he reckoned, and that was already a missed opportunity. The antipathy between them would calcify before Alexander would admit any wrongdoing, and George was certainly disinclined to bear it in his stead. Casting his eyes across the table — strewn with the remnants of Alexander’s refreshment — George solidified into this feeling. Instead he had chosen to come inside. Where it was comfortable. So that he might sit at the table. Sit and drink tea while George broke his back under the bright yellow sun. 

For his part, Alexander longed for George. Passionately. Yet he failed to see a way to surmount the distance that had sprung up between them. The dining table across which he now regarded him stretched as wide as the ocean itself. Adding insult to injury, George turned his head away — having just ascertained the teacup — in a gesture totally crestfallen. This action was completed just as Alexander’s eyes flicked up to look upon his face once more. Having thus missed one another’s attention by a matter of moments, they were consequently predisposed to be at odds with one another before a single word had been spoken. 

It might have gone differently, Reader. We will note that in marriage, as in so many things, the expectation tends to diverge from the reality. There will be compromise, soothed nerves, passionate kisses — eventually. 

Had Alexander earlier requested that the carriage be halted — hailed George accordingly; had he walked out to greet him and clasped his hands in his own — kissed them tenderly with grateful tears in his eyes — then the scene would have unfolded otherwise. They would have made superficial amends and then continued on in the manner most people do: politely. That is, with all that the tamping down of strong feeling requires. Politeness is the polar opposite of passion, and most marriages favour the former because they lack the latter.

In marrying Mr. Washington, Alexander had thought he would be free to do as he wished (within reason), and thus would be more or less unhindered in his desire to speak his mind, earn money, decide the matter of his surname. In marrying Mr. Hamilton, George had thought he was ensuring for himself a lifetime of gratitude which would manifest chiefly in loving looks and considerable silences during his sojourns to Mount Vernon.

It is said that far in the Pacific Ocean lies a chain of islands under which magma flows at all times. These islands were born in fire; it is their natural state. The dormancy that presents a calm appearance of green-shouldered mountains and impenetrable mists should not be taken as the natural state of things. All mountains will eventually crumble; all volcanoes erupt, in the end. One such eruption happens here, Reader. Follow it if you will. 

Alexander tore through the silence with a greeting that sounded faintly accusatory. ‘I had hoped you would be here to welcome me home,’ he blurted out. With this he now got to his feet and stood there stupidly, uncertain if he should approach or if his husband would come to him. Fingertips drummed upon the table, sending slight echoes up its wooden surface. His voice a bit louder, he added, ‘But then I suppose that Adrienne did not bother to convey the time of my arrival. I did so wish to see you.’

(This all said in a tone with feigned lightheartedness. Alexander was hurt as well: that George had been such a miserly correspondent; that he was now in full, robust health and nobody had bothered to convey this information to Alexander; and from a sneaking suspicion that the desire to miss Eliza’s celebration had not been owing to his health at all, merely a twisted whim to deprive Alexander of his family’s companionship.)

We may count among George’s good qualities a propensity for civility. Thus he pivoted on his heel and executed a small, flawless bow in Alexander’s general direction. 

‘Forgive me,’ he said shortly. If the truth is be told he had not quite forgiven Alexander for leaving him behind in the first place. Though, it should be added, assenting to the choice (merely by reason of not expressing one’s displeasure at the alternative) is not precisely the same as refusal. In selfishness and jealousy had George wished to keep Alexander home at Mount Vernon yet silent he had been then. Silent he was now. Alexander for his part had been blind in the way of people who see only what they wish, and so George’s abstention had been taken for approbation. ‘I was uncertain as to the day and time of your arrival. Now if you will excuse me, I must dress.’

During the interval George had come back to his body and his senses in fits and starts. Slowly he found ways to rebuild order from the nothing his resolve had become. It helped, he found, to do some things as if he were in the service. Rising early, his breathing exercises, frigid baths — he was looking forward to pouring that first pitcherful of ice-cold water over his bare head just as soon as he got through to his room — all did their part. Shooting with Adrienne, riding out with her. Merely being with her fortified him; his chief enjoyment in her company being that he was never required, under any circumstances, to talk. Alexander still wished to deliver his speech; George knew him well enough to discern that a conversation was about to erupt. That could not be permitted to happen.

Dizzy when he stood, realizing George had absolutely no intentions of crossing over to him, Alexander reached out a hand to steady himself against the wall. It quivered like gelatine. Confusion was thick upon him. Alexander’s memory helpfully supplied the mental image that he had seen but an hour ago in the fields, and this fresh remembrance was made more robust by virtue of having George pressed up against him. He smelled rather bad, if the truth be known, but bad in a way that was also very, very good.

George took a step away, shirking against the wall. Alexander filled the space between them and came still nearer. Upon moving in this general direction, he found himself overcome with sensation. What was its origin? On the one hand, he had travelled all day without taking sustenance. His hunger could have very well added to a general sense of discombobulation. Additionally, he had stood up quickly from his seat. Everybody knows that this can cause lightheadedness, lasting anywhere from a few seconds to several minutes. Presumably it has to do with blood leaving the legs and travelling up to the brain — although perhaps it is the other way round. Whatever the physiological particulars may be, we can state definitively that Alexander’s blood was diverted away from his head as well as his heart at this precise moment.

Alexander’s hand left the wall. It touched George’s shirt at the juncture where it hugged close to his upper arm. If he had had to identify this smell positively then he would have been at a total loss for words. He could have told you what it was _not_ : not the close smell of the sickroom — blood-soaked linen, antiseptic; nor the room where he convalesced — old blankets, stale tea. The smell baffled him, but whatever it might have been — half sour, wholly intoxicating — its effect on Alexander was evident.

‘Oh, will you not wait for a moment?’ Alexander asked, and clutched pitifully at his husband’s arm. ‘For I have missed your company greatly and have so very much to tell you about the particulars of my journey—’

George was tired. He was hot. Above all else, he was in no mood for talking. He wriggled his arm away from Alexander and said, somewhat less politely than before, ‘There will be time enough I am sure, now that you are returned to Mount Vernon.' He added, a bit sourly, 'Where you belong.’

This last was confusion — George meant at home with _him,_ surely — but Alexander heard it as a rebuke. Which in a way, it was.

‘Meaning what?’ he asked, taken aback by the remark. His husband shrugged without comment. Then, in Alexander’s maddening way, he continued on without giving pause. The taciturn among us often need to be indulged with long silences before they may bestow a reply; such was George. Alexander stomped across the conversation, tore through it as if it were a field churned up to mud after a battle, and said with a cruel laugh, ‘George, you have been absent from Mount Vernon for quite a while. We have made progress here, Adrienne and I, and Gilbert and Henry too. Things are not so constrained as all that. You need not have worried about my well-being, for as you can see,’ and here he indicated the table with its detritus, precisely the worst thing he could have pointed to with its evidence of his idle hour, ‘I have made myself very comfortable in the meantime.’

George crossed his arms. Still he would have preferred to avert conversation but nevertheless he said freely, ‘Returning alone in the carriage speaks ill of your character, Alexander. The roads are not safe under the usual circumstances, worse during times of war. Worse still when a man such as yourself is traveling through the City.’

After these words were spoken thus, Alexander was aghast. Whatever could George mean? A man such as himself? He was small (as the poet says) though fierce. Why! He wrote books! Kept the estate running! Earned his own keep! Surely George did not intend for him to have a — a _chaperone_ everywhere he went? A fine thing to demand, if he himself would not take on the task. ‘And who was I to ask?’ he went on, voice rising in a way that could only bode ill. He went on, ‘You have the audacity to demand that I be taken about by a guardian! You refused to come with me when you were, as I see now,’ — here he looked George over from head to toe — ‘perfectly capable of doing. Who else should have done your duty in your stead, I beg of you?’

Alexander huffed. Then, in his quick way was he about to continue with his tirade, when George interrupted. ‘On the journey home; yes. There is reason for concern. But on your way to Monmouth I am sure you were in more than capable hands. With your brother-in-law, no doubt.’

A quizzical look crossed Alexander’s brow. A breeze stirred, blew smoke from the volcano. For a brief moment, the air was clear. Then he grasped the intended meaning. ‘John?’ he asked at last. His voice was tight in his chest. ‘You speak to me of John? Angelica’s John?’

George merely lifted one shoulder. His mouth turned down at the corner. It looked enticing, eminently kissable. Alexander would have preferred kisses to a fight. But the earth was shifting. Plates moved. Magma bubbled. The course had already been set. 

‘The very idea,’ he spluttered, ‘is preposterous. You are my _husband_. We are married. John is a brother to me, a dear one, to be certain. But nothing more.’

George glowered. Alexander, who never knew when to leave well enough alone, went on with sheer obliviousness. Was it intentional that he chose this moment to speak with such kind words, effusive praise, regarding the festivities he had only just returned from? Did he want to share —  if only by contagion — the residual excitement with the man he loved more than practically anything or anyone he had ever known? In seeing that John’s name had caused jealousy, after a manner of speaking, in George, was Alexander seeking to produce more of the same? Was he looking for confirmation in anger what he could not glean from tenderness? On this, we must remain silent. The motives are unclear, but the effect? Disastrous. 

‘But now that you mention it,’ he said in an airy tone, ‘John was preoccupied with Angelica and Philip most of the time we were at South End. He looked in on me from time to time, but I was left quite alone at the ball with no one to dance with.’

Now it was George's turn to be annoyed at Alexander's airy qualities. He was so very spoiled, knew nothing but sloth and indolence! He had never worked a day in his life. Martha had at least understood his position. Perhaps even a man from a lower order, who put stock by honest sweat and toil, would have been a better choice. Really he should not have married at all, and certainly not betrothed himself impulsively to a man who was as useful to society as a fondant-covered teacake.

George's whole body tensed. His muscles quivered, his jaw twitched with anger. ‘Alexander, surely you see that your duty is to the family, to Mount Vernon. You owe it — _us_ — your allegiance." 

For this Alexander already had an answer at the ready. ‘I have given more to Mount Vernon in four years than you might think. The estate’s finances are in the best order they have been for nearly a century. Henry found me the ledgers. Adrienne had made quite a mess of things, you know, but I soon turned it round.’

‘You?’ George asked with incredulity. These claims were becoming increasingly difficult to believe. What liberties had Alexander taken with him away? Why not leave the whole business to Adrienne, as it was hers to contend with. George had permitted Alexander a bank account for the same reason any sensible person might, for a small bit of freedom makes the partner feel as if they have some choice in the matter, some reckoning in the way their life plays out, rather than this being entirely the product of society. 

‘Is it so hard to believe that I might have some aptitude for mathematics?’ retorted Alexander. ‘Why, it is merely a matter of tabulating what comes in and what goes out. A child could do it.’

‘But the estate,’ George said, aghast to think of Alexander riding out amongst the tenants. 'The rents?’

‘Adrienne collects them as usual,’ Alexander replied. He went on in the same self-satisfied tone, ‘George, I have been very careful to keep my involvement concealed. I have used the same discretion with regard to my publishing, my writing.’

‘Publishing!’ George exclaimed. ‘What on earth can you intend by this?’ He knew not know what he should respond to, for there was quite a lot of it. Hazy smoke from the volcano's mouth began to obscure the pale yellow sky. 

‘Why,’ Alexander now fairly quivered with excitement, for it is wonderful to tell a secret that you have been holding back until the person you wish to share it with is in front of you, and the moment is ripe to reveal it. ‘Why I have been writing! Quite a lot, now I tabulate it up. Several books, and countless reviews of the same — there must be hundreds by now — and then all the political essays, and the rebuttals to same—’

‘What?’ George said again, as if perhaps this time he would be given a different answer. His head was sweating in response to this new knowledge. He thought he would have preferred to remain in ignorance of Alexander's various schemes. 

‘I promise I have been very careful,’ Alexander admonished him, ‘I have used a pseudonym. The only person who knows is Mr. Jefferson, really.' 

George had no answer to this either. It was for the best that Alexander did not mention here his fellows in the pursuit of liberty, who had been at the house only a few months prior. 

'Alexander,' George said with his patience well tried, 'I only wish you would exercise some discretion in these matters. Mr. Jefferson cares for only three things: wine, books, and profits.' 

'There are worse things,' said Alexander with an annoyed glare. 'And he has always been kind to me, when I have visited or written to him.' 

The look on George's face was something to behold. 'You have visited him? Alone?' A shower of sparks presaged what was still to come. 

'In France—' he began to say. A jet of lava set forth, straight up into the sky. And then another, up — another to the east — to the south-west — and then the ground shook with the force of a creation myth, the landscape criss-crossed with molten fire. 

'Do not speak to me of France,' cried George with a shake of his head. 'The men there are immodest beyond all doubt. I would think you would have sense enough to not try and emulate them in their political sentiments, but now I am all awonder that you have striven to model your personal behaviour on theirs as well?' 

‘Is it so bad that the men in France have been liberated?’ Alexander snarled back. ‘Is this a thing that you wish to die in the service of overturning? Care you not for freedom? Or are you simply a man in a cage? I think you must be. A strong man requires only a larger cage, but he is still not free, even if he may turn about in his prison.' 

George’s face sagged. He was, after all, a simple soldier. His mind was tactical enough to be useful. His intellect was just sharp enough to execute orders handed down from on high. Alexander was correct, but George would prefer not to remember the yearning for freedom he had once thought to have. It is easy enough to forget a childish dream when duty does its work. 

‘Far be it from me to question the cause,’ he said flatly and was about to turn away and finally make for his rooms. 'If you will excuse me.' 

Alexander slapped his husband’s shoulder in a snit, ‘No!’ he exclaimed, ‘George, listen to me. If you wish to question it, then what power in the world can stop you? If you wish,’ and here he grew quite daring, for an idea had been brewing in his mind ever since Adrienne had first brought him home, and even before that. It came out in a rush. 'You could leave. Leave the army. Why not! If it has not been done up until now then it is simply because no one has ever tried. Resign your commission. I will write you words of resignation that not even Her Majesty could deny. I will help you. And then you will be a free man. Or free, at least, up to a point. But it is better than placing your life on the line for a country that despises you, is it not?' 

‘The very idea—’ George now wrenched his hand away from Alexander’s own. His vision blurred, turned white with anger. Trees caught fire; smoke billowed up the sides of the mountain; no longer green, no longer quiet. ‘Have you no sense of loyalty? What of honour, of duty? Or, dare I say it, you would have me abandon these principles as well, the better to satisfy your misguided ones? You speak treason before God and the Queen? I allow you to live in this home, and this is your opinion of our great nation? This is how you repay me?’

‘George,’ Alexander said, feeling an unwanted wetness at the corners of his eyes, his lashes growing heavy with it. He began to plead, ‘George I did not mean to imply—’

‘—why, you must think me as baseless as yourself,’ George interrupted, by now rather liking the feel of doing it. His anger was very deep, and seemed to him righteous in the moment, like a battle. And much like a battle, it is only in the aftermath that a man may have pause for regret. It is the red haze which fortifies him in the present. ‘Positively shameless in your guiles to entrap me into marriage,’ and noticing Alexander’s shocked expression yet thinking of nothing but the power he now felt — a powerful volley, liquid metal from the earth's core, again and again shot forth— continued on in this same vein. ‘Why, any fool could see this was nothing but idle fancy on your part. A trick!' 

‘Lies,’ Alexander managed to say. By now the tears which he had fought to keep welled up had overflowed his eyes and were making their way down his cheeks, two slow streaks that he wiped away with the back of his hand. ‘George if you only knew—’

‘I do not wish to know!’ was the answer. ‘I wish only to live my remaining days in ignorance of your treasonous stupidity!’ 

The two men stared at one another. Those two tears had opened the floodgates, the first of many. Around Alexander’s nostrils the skin was a bright, swollen pink. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief that George had bequeathed him all those moons ago, but before he managed to lift it to his nose, George snatched it from his hand and, ignoring Alexander’s gasp in protest, made his way into his room, slamming every door he could on the way there.

Alexander was alone, sniffling with no way to stop his nose. The landscape of the quiet green mountain was forever changed. 


	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _By Morning Light — The Fight Abroad — A Token Reappears — Understanding_

Day broke. With it came all the regrets that the night had held in abatement while the inhabitants of Mount Vernon slept. Is there any hour more melancholy than rosy-fingered dawn — when one has awoken from a sound sleep, and stretched one’s arms overhead, and thought with longing of the fire that will soon be crackling in the grate and the morning’s first cup of fortifying tea (or coffee, if that is one’s preference) — when it is attended by the realization that all has been thrown into disorder with angry words that have settled over the household like so much volcanic dust?

Indeed, there is not.

George woke as the sun peeped over the horizon, turning the sky from inky blue to paler indigo. For a moment he felt refreshed, for sleep can be a tremendous tonic; an antidote to labour. Then he recalled being needlessly cruel to Alexander the previous afternoon. Words he had said which could not be unsaid. And tears! Tears that he had been the cause of! His stomach ached to dwell upon them.

Alexander’s eyes blinked open as the pale indigo faded and was replaced with a cloudy orange. He stretched and turned over onto his right side, closed his eyes again to compose the mental list of what needed to be accomplished that day. Yawning, he thought to begin with making bread dough, followed by breakfast. After that, some revisions to the piece of writing Mr. Henry had passed along. Then his thoughts bent to George, as they ever did come morning, and a cold bolt of terror shot through him to recall how callous his husband had been.

Adrienne slept on and did not stir until the sun had already risen high into the sky, blue once more. She alone had no regrets from the previous evening, only thought that the village menfolk might benefit from time spent under Gilbert’s tutelage. 

Days dawn whether we like it or not. Despite arguments and very much in spite of animosities long-held or newly surfaced, life goes on. Bread must be baked and onions strung — as Alexander did that day; game hunted and drawn — Adrienne’s speciality in late autumn; the last straw cut and laid to dry for winter — which activity George resumed after he had completed his morning ablutions.

Dinner that evening was an awkward affair. George looked down at his potted prawns morosely. Alexander drank too much wine and coughed a great deal to cover the horrible, aching silences. Adrienne, of course, noticed nothing amiss. She happily gobbled up George’s portion of the prawns that he left behind on his plate.

 

~*~

 

Bit by bit, Alexander’s daily anxiety eased. Initially upon quarrelling with George he had feared the worst possible outcomes imaginable. George had sent him into a panic with his accusations. To have his honest love for his husband recast as so much male artifice, the way he wielded a pen reimagined as treason! Scenarios multiplied in his mind, each more horrible than the last. He would be divorced and left alone, friendless. Lady Catherine would refuse to take him in. Even his dear Eliza would scorn him. George, naturally, would divorce him. He would be sent away to an institution to live out his remaining days in solitude and idle misery. His money — every hard-earned penny! — would revert to Mr. Washington’s control.

Nights fell; mornings came. The earth inched along its parabola around the sun. Hay was cut, straw sheathed, farm animals brought indoors for winter. Dozens of loaves were baked, cooled on the countertop, and sliced for toast. Frosts came and killed the last of the plumbago. Quail were killed and roasted. The days grew short. Winter draw in. A fire blazed in the hall from morning until night. Gilbert returned from his travels and kissed Adrienne passionately. Life, in short, continued.

 

~*~

 

Morning’s frost ensheathed each blade of grass in a glittery carpace. A thousand tiny shattering sounds marked Alexander’s passage back to the house. Though he he had stuffed his shoes with scraps of wool to insulate them better, still his toes were cold. He was grateful to be headed back inside, although first he would have to find a way to open the back door with his arms full. He shifted this way and that. The sticks he held rattled against one another. 

As if fortune herself smiled upon him, a man materialized in the doorway; George, headed out of doors just as Alexander was returning.

‘Oh,’ George startled. ‘Excuse me, Alexander,’ he held the door open so that the be figure might pass inside with a minimum of fuss. His arms were overflowing with green branches — fir, boxwood, and holly with its bright red berries. George noticed the holly berries first, Alexander’s pink cheeks second.

‘Begging your pardon,’ replied Alexander as he passed indoors. A few sprigs of holly fell to the floor. George retrieved them and placed them carefully atop the pile he carried. For a moment their eyes met. ‘Thank you,’ Alexander said in response, after they had stared at one another for a while.

‘Do not mention it,’ George answered, and went about his business.

It occurred to George, as he walked towards the barn where Nelson’s daily grooming awaited him, that he did not know Alexander very well at all. The man he had conjured up in his quiet hours — which grew fewer as the war progressed and his wellbeing soured — was but a figment. In memory Alexander was perfect; he did not mutter aloud to himself at unusual times, his demeanour was unfailingly polite, his tongue quick but always kind. It stood to reason that a real man would differ from the one George dwelt upon.

He comprehended, on some abstract level, that the man he had married had always been outspoken. Still too he understood that he had acted with the restraint befitting a bachelor before they had wed, thus confining his opinions to a limited circle of family and friends.

At first he had blamed Adrienne, and then he blamed Mr. John Schuyler, and at last he blamed himself. George now saw that in refusing to temper Alexander’s inclinations with his own regular correspondence, he had been culpable as well in its proliferation. Now he had gained a wider audience, and with it, influence as it is commonly denied to those of the male sex. Physical prowess, such as George was possessed of, was only part of what comprised power. His boots crunched as he walked over the cold gravel. He went carefully, for the stones could be slick, and was obliged to jiggle the lock which barred the stable door until it, iced shut with frost, finally came free.

A barn cat, its beautiful black coat marred only by a few splotches of yellowed white, with whiskers as wiry as an old woman’s hair, inspected him as he entered. Its fur puffed out around its neck so that it appeared that the old woman was wearing a coat with a large collar fashioned from some unfortunate dead animal, of the kind Adrienne might have killed if there were any sport in doing it. As cats often do, it appeared skeptical, despite the fact that it saw George visit the stables twice daily, once in the morning and again in the afternoon.

George glanced at the cat nestled in its comfortable on a pile of straw which kept it cosy in the winter, and held its stare. Wordlessly, they seemed to reach a consensus about the cat permitting George’s presence there. Then from his position against the far wall Nelson puffed out a warm breath and stomped his hooves against the floor. Leaving the matter of Alexander aside for the time being, George turned to the care of his truest companion without sparing another thought for the cat. For its part, the cat decided now was as good a time as any to turn three circles in one spot, craning its neck to get a better view of its own tail for mysterious reasons that no person can fully explain. Finally it curled up again like a prawn and allowed its eyes to close until they were mere green slits peeking out into the dim light of the enclosure.

As he methodically cleaned Nelson’s hooves with an iron pick, dislodging only one small stone in the process, George’s thoughts bent once again to Alexander and the matter of his political views. In this regard his personal inexperience was a hindrance when it should have been a virtue. A poor woman, George’s mother had been barely literate herself. Taken into the army and subjected to that treatment, George had only learned the rudiments of his letters; geography, tactics, maneuvers formed the basis of his schooling. So it happened that he knew only as much as was needed for his duty, and duty he did. Amongst his fellow soldiers he was considered a dull and withdrawn creature, for except for his longstanding dalliance with Martha he had proven himself restrained in his appetites as intellect.

Yet what Alexander had presaged — and he, hereby returned to our shores, saw evidence of in the newspapers, and pamphlets, and overheard conversations at the pub, and in speaking with other friends and acquaintances — was a lapping of the tide.

George very likely had not seen it take place. Much in the same way that one knows instinctively that the ocean still exists— its currents bearing up against rock and sand — even if a person is miles from any coastline, one still can easily forget its power, its force if they have not been struck in the face by a breaking wave. Even before the war escalated from a skirmish to a full-blown diplomatic breakdown, his visits home had generally been irregular. And a soldier’s life is so jammed full from dawn until the lamps are blown out that he will hardly have a chance to stay up-to-date on current affairs. This was why George’s whole bearing, his manners, struck a very patent longing in the hearts of every woman who encountered him. His was an old-fashioned politeness. A novelty that might have worn off quickly, had a one of them found herself betrothed to him, but which made him a quite dashing guest at parties and functions when his appearance was limited to an evening’s entertainment.

Considerate beyond measure, whenever George chanced to visit his home country he made sure to act as the very model of decorum. Naturally it could not be otherwise. Men who have been permitted power cannot be seen to abuse it with unwarranted liberties, and thus was George always chivalrous, kind, and deferential in his comportment. Had she been alive to see him behave thus, his beloved Martha might have encouraged him to relax his standards, to go easier on himself. Above all, she would have him laugh more freely; in this she and Alexander would have seen eye to eye.

George skimmed the curry comb across Nelson’s flank. The horse whinnied as he found the sensation of the metal teeth gripping his flesh unpleasant. However he had only been ridden for a short time that morning, and as the frost was thick on the ground, the mud that might have found its way into his coat stayed frozen solid and the painful brush was swapped for one with natural bristles. Nelson enjoyed this one much more than the last, even if there was a spot on his rear left flank that George always managed to tickle when he groomed him.

Through the dense coat the brush slithered. Nelson swished his tail. The society Alexander had imagined into being and argued on the behalf of through the sheer force of will — (George remained ignorant of the score of other men who masqueraded as women to make their voices heard) — was unlike France, that appalling republic of violence and tyranny. It seemed superior to Iberia and Greater Spain, from what he had known of those places. It was surely better than the depraved West Indies, where matters of sex were reversed from our own society but not clearly to anyone’s particular advantage. It was our world, but better. Free from constraint, with men and woman both able to speak their minds, and work if they so desire it, and marry who they wish — at any stage of life.

Waves break along the rocks and wear it down. Eventually, a large piece will erode enough that it falls into the water. The stone drops and the ripples may change, for a brief moment, the course of the tide.

 

~*~

 

 _‘Que se passe-t-il avec ces deux?’_ Adrienne asked Gilbert late one night, when they had become bored with playing cards.

‘They have had an argument,’ Gilbert explained to his lover, trailing his fingers along her bare arm. Smoke wreathed her head like a funeral veil. ‘Sooner or later someone will grow tired of it.’

 _‘Je ne comprends pas vous les hommes parfois,’_ sighed Adrienne. Shoving one graceful hand behind her head she reclined and stared at the ceiling.

‘I prefer life in France,’ answered Gilbert, and kissed her shoulder lovingly. ‘But there is comfort to be had here. Money, too. A ready supply of students.’

 _‘Il y a surtout l'ennui,’_ she answered, her fine mouth turned down in annoyance.

‘We may remedy that in our own manner,’ he replied, and her mouth curved up, very slightly, at the insinuation.

 

~*~

 

On the other side of the Channel, the fight continued. The man who led the armies marched them to the south, and to the east, and in the direction of the setting sun. For the inhabitants of those countries, it seemed that peace would never again return to their lands. Our soldiers grew weary but they fought on without hope for glory. 

Charles Lee, however, was more than pleased with his own remarkable ascendancy. Overtures were made — in a brief missive that alluded to freedom but raised instead the blood-soaked standard of personal renown, which was enough to sway General Lee with only a minor pecuniary reward offered — from that infamous short man to this self-seeking tall one.

Another request for George to return was made and denied, in turn. 

 

~*~

 

A few days prior to Christmas, Adrienne was in the gun room with all her arsenal laid out before her. Bullets were being matched to their ammunition. Piles of metal surrounded her hunched-over figure, and the smell of hot grease and gunpowder perfumed the oily air. It was her favourite activity, meditative in its practice.

George had greased the latch into the room itself, but the wood had expanded from the cold. This meant that a person coming into the gun room from outside would be obligated to tug, and pull, and strain with all their might against the swollen door.

When at last Alexander was able to wrench it free he picked up the tray that carried two teacups — one for Adrienne, the other for George — and carried it into the room. Looking around for a place on which to set it — so covered was every available surface with bowls of oil, canisters of powder, and bullets, round and liable to roll away, everywhere in disarray — the tray wobbled as he held it.

At last he located a table that had a corner free from clutter, and he leaned down to set the tray atop it. Unfortunately, the reason this table was not in use was that it had one leg much shorter than all the rest, so that anything which was placed on its surface had a tendency to fall onto the floor. This happened precisely with the tray in question and its cargo of hot liquid. Alexander was able to save most of it, but still some of the tea splashed out nonetheless. It landed upon his hand, right where the meat of it met his thumb, and caused the skin to sting and blister there. He yelped almost as soon as it happened although the pain only registered a few seconds later.

‘Are you hurt?’ George crossed the room in three great strides, leaving Adrienne with her oil-soaked rag alone at the table. He took Alexander’s hand gently in his own and turned it this way and that, examining it.

When he had looked his fill, George thus ascertained that though the skin would be pink and scalded, the burn was minor as these things go. Still, he thought it best to bind the wound immediately and pulled a handkerchief — the very same, astute reader, as had been repossessed but a few months before — from his pocket. 

‘I will return this to you right away,’ Alexander murmured, as George knotted the cloth around his injured hand. He winced when the fabric brushed against him, but gritted his teeth and bore the pain bravely. 

George’s hand lingered upon his own. For a long moment neither man so much as breathed. He fondled the handkerchief’s loose corner, tucking it in more securely so it would stay out of the way and not flap about. Studiously he did this, with a handsome furrow between his dark brows. Leaning down to inspect his handiwork he said, in a low voice, ‘It would give me great pleasure, Alexander, if you would keep it.’

‘Keep it?’ Alexander said with amazement. He thought that gifts from George would be withheld indefinitely. A thing of the past, not to treasure in the future. He had hoped beyond hope for kind words. For an apology. For forgiveness. But he knew, too, that George was quiet man for whom gestures meant more than anything spoken, written, or sung. And then as Alexander was presently realizing this, that he and George were different in this fundamental way, but perhaps that was not the wedge he had previous considered it to be, something extraordinary happened. George's dark eyes met his still darker ones. Bending forward from the waist, he pressed his lips to the palm of Alexander’s hand.

‘Indeed,’ he said, as even as anything. He lingered there, as if there were no place he would prefer to be. Alexander’s heart rung out, joyously. ‘As a token of my appreciation.’

 _'As-tu fini là-bas, vieux?,'_ Adrienne teased, and George released Alexander's hand slowly, as if it were a precious thing. He patted it, and then returned to assist her.  

With this romantic incident to bolster his spirits for the foreseeable future, Alexander made his way along the perimeter of the exterior walls and went inside to the kitchen. There the windows had fogged over from within. Gilbert was boiling a rooster. It was here that Alexander happened upon him, ladling hot burgundy wine over the stewing meat, wearing only a dressing-gown.

‘We will dine at nine,’ Gilbert informed him. He sniffed, loudly. 

‘So late?’ Alexander asked. His beloved George preferred to have his supper much earlier and to be on his way to bed by nine o’clock. He would go to bed hungry, and that would never do. 

‘The rooster,’ he explained, and poked it with the tongs. ‘It was very old. There are lardons in the pot, but we must allow time to work her magic.’ Then he pressed his fingers to his lips and pursed them. Alexander, who had never had a single lesson from Gilbert’s hand, still felt odd at noticing this gesture.

‘Of course’ said Alexander, whereupon he retreated to his rooms and set to work. Three missives he penned, and a bad poem meant only for himself about how he had felt when George touched his hand. A few revisions on an essay from Mr. Henry. In between dips of his quill he looked at the handkerchief and knew, inexorably, that he was loved. Love was more complicated than a novel, even more confusing than a poem. But by this token George made his affections, his regard, and his faithfulness abundantly clear. He was _loved_. 

And then, after checking to see that Gilbert was away from the stove and would not take offense, he quickly prepared a tray for Mr. Washington, and placed it before his bedroom door. He knew that the poem he had just composed was silly, and that George would not say anything if he read it. The metre would go unnoticed, the metaphors would be missed. 

But as his husband loved with gestures, so Alexander did with words. The bit of foolscap with its foolish words was folded neatly and tucked inside the linen napkin, and the whole left for George to discover in his own time. 


	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _An Encounter — A New Beginning — Christmas at Last — Alexander is Pleasantly Surprised_

Alexander was dragging a chair into the great hall when he looked up to see George — dressed for outdoor work in plain clothes of gray and black — picking up the bunch of blue-furled mistletoe and inspecting it curiously.

‘Adrienne shot it down for me,’ Alexander said, much to George’s consternation. Hardly sporting, he thought, to shoot at plants. But Adrienne had her own amusements, and he was in no position to dispute that they brought her pleasure, which was thin on the ground these days. She itched for adventures, her most recent adventures barely slaking her thirst to be gone from this green and pleasant land. To see mountains again, and slash her way through thickets of forest that had never known the ring of an axe. ‘I had hoped to hang it in the archway.’

George’s eyes scanned the arch until they lit upon the hook that had been placed there some years past. Taking deft possession of the chair he clambered up it with delicate grace, whereupon he held out his hand and the mistletoe was gingerly placed in it. He lifted it above his head. A few white berries shook loose and drifted onto the floor. With great caution George anchored the greenery onto the hook thus provided.

‘There?’ he queried, seeking Alexander’s good opinion.

Alexander admired the picture George made, very fine from his vantage point on the ground. After he had finished with this he cast his eye over George’s handiwork. He said, ‘A little to the left, if you please. It seems to me to be ever so slightly askew.’

Delicately, George nudged the green sprigs until they were evenly distributed across the hook. 

‘There?’ he asked again. Alexander tilted his head owlishly. ‘Yes,’ he replied after another lengthy pause. ‘Yes, that will do very nicely.’ Task completed, George began the arduous business of returning himself to the floor. His hand groped outward for a place on which to rest. Finding that Alexander’s shoulder was approximately the correct height, he reached for it. By using this as a kind of prop was he able to safely find his two feet on solid ground yet again. His hip bothered him but a little on his way down, but it seemed for the best to make use of any support he could locate. That the support happened to be Alexander was merely a happy coincidence, he told himself, no more.

His right foot touched the floor, followed by the left. The white berries were flattened beneath his boots, streaking an odourless residue across the clean floor. George drew himself up to his full height, and checked to see that the mistletoe had remained where it was placed. The hand remained on Alexander’s shoulder.

Alexander was acutely aware of this point of contact, particularly that the grip was as firm as it had been when George was bearing his full weight upon it. He darted a quick glance away, thus giving George ample opportunity to remove his hand and allow it to hang by his side as it would under usual circumstances. He also reprimanded his body as if it were a foreign agent, telling it in no uncertain terms to stop trembling. Why, he was a man grown, not a foolish schoolboy who had never been kissed!

It should go without saying that both men had been preoccupied with the hanging of the mistletoe, and in doing so both failed to notice that they were standing directly beneath it. George had taken his sweet time coming down from his perch, making certain that his final position would require no adjustments for what he was about to do. Alexander was too preoccupied with the sensation of George’s large hand, a warm weight through his jacket, to be much aware of anything else.

His thumb moved forwards and backwards across the fabric. A faint amusement colouring his serious features, George’s head tilted back to take in the mistletoe. It did look very fine, along with the rest of the room. Holly and ivy twined around candlesticks and spruce boughs adorned the mantlepiece. Mount Vernon had needed a man’s touch to make it a home, he saw that clearly now. And how fortunate that Alexander had come to be that man, despite all the animosity and the hurt that passed between the inhabitants. The house had woken up from its long slumber, its cold gray stones warmed golden from attention.

Almost absently his thumb crept up to Alexander’s collar. There it waited. Alexander’s breath was rabbity-quick, but he was audacious in his desires. How he wanted! He met George’s eyes, and saw an unanswered query there. Permission was being sought in the smallest manner possible.

A bashful man will refuse to directly look at the person who wishes to kiss him. This is done to preserve modesty, but also so that a man may convince himself that it is of no importance to him whether he is kissed or not. It absolves the one being kissed from admitting to his own desperate desires. That is what a man should be like: chaste, submissive, grateful for crumbs.

(But in this as in most things, Alexander was far beyond what we would consider ordinary.)

His eyelashes fluttered as George’s thumb skipped away from the fabric and made its way onto flesh, with the rest of the hand following. Alexander let out a soft gasp and reached for the certainty of George’s own jacket to provide him with his own much-needed stability. Now they were both holding the one onto the other for support: George cradling Alexander’s cheek in his warm palm, Alexander clutching George’s lapels as if he were a ship’s polished railing during a roiling storm at sea.

George looked up, then down. Closer in he leaned, his mouth seeking contact with Alexander's own.

Alexander looked down at his hands, and then back up again. He pressed his whole body against George’s and closed his eyes, as it seemed rude to stare at that particular moment. 

They met at a place in the middle. The mistletoe, though not quite sentient in the way of woman or child or cat or man, nevertheless bore benevolent witness to this ritual as old as time. If a plant could smirk, it would have done so. 

A kiss can be many things, reader. An invitation, an apology, a promise. If one looks closely they might discern that some kisses manage to transcend singular purpose and fill all these (and still more, unnamed and unknown) simultaneously. They close one chapter and begin another. Like a preamble, a kiss can set the tone for what comes next. By this kiss we may find it evident to say that what would follow would not be exciting in any proper sense of the word. If it were to be a novel it would be tedious beyond compare. But that which is dull in the telling is almost always the best for living.

At last the husbands broke apart. Their hands had become entwined while they were kissing, and these remained clasped together. Alexander wiped the back of his free hand across his mouth. It chafed. His whole person tingled, from his toes stuffed into their pointed shoes all the way up to his scalp, which felt as though his hair was scraped back into the tightest of queues, despite it being loose around his shoulders. Every inch of him was frighteningly, joyously alive. He was a schoolboy, and a man, and a husband, and a lover all at once — for as kisses can be many things, so can we all.

‘Good day, Alexander,’ said George pleasantly, as if they had merely encountered one another in the passageway in the course of an afternoon.

He had to say something in response. His tongue was thick but he managed still to blurt out, ‘Good day to you as well, Sir,’ the epithet burbling to the surface unbidden. He flushed upon realizing what he had said, for surely they had by now moved well beyond the need for titles. However once he had swallowed his shame, and realized that George was not inclined to laugh at his error, he looked up to find himself being studied with peculiar intent.

What the meaning intended — its effects immediate but also delayed, for George would think on it for hours to come — would have to wait for later. Tasks still required their attention. ‘Until we meet again,’ George replied, and bowed magnificently, almost as if upon the instance of their first meeting — though Alexander was in a much better position this time around. And then George was gone, swallowed into the depths of the estate and its thousand little demands on a person’s time.

 

~*~

 

Christmas saw deep, soft snow that blanketed the estate with quiet, making the festivities indoors seem even louder by comparison. A fire crackled; John had played magnificently on the piano, though now he was obliged to step away from that instrument and tend to his daughter. 

The tiny infant Catherine, whom John had already affectionately begun to refer to as _Kitty_ — perhaps in doing so to distinguish this sweet dark child from his sharp-tongued mother-in-law, whose name she carried — found great pleasure in testing her lung capacity. They had started and stopped the exchange of gifts thrice thus far: once for John to deal with her swaddling, another for Angelica to nurse, and the third time simply because she seemed to want to scream for no discernible reason at all.

Adrienne itched to go out of doors and traipse through the fresh snow. It had continued all through the night. It was there when Gilbert brought her a breakfast tray, and though the arrival of Alexander’s adopted sister and brother-in-law marred the front drive, there was a vast expanse of unblemished snow waiting for her first bootprint to sink into it around the back side of the house.

But out of loyalty to Alexander, who found such comfort in establishing traditions of his own, she sat in one place on the divan, without so much as resting her boots on the table, and accepted the gift he had given her with gestures of great appreciation. Tossing the bag back and forth between her hand caused the nuts to clack against one another, and the noise — very much akin to a rattle — provided a sound which interested baby Kitty, who ceased in her deafening screams long enough to try and locate its source with unfocused eyes.

Adrienne was ignoring the baby as she had done all morning long. Philip was only marginally more interesting to her, mainly because he would repeat anything that a person said to him without fully comprehending what it meant. She longed to teach him how to swear an oath. How amusing would that be! From the far corner of the room, Kitty began to wail again. Adrienne’s jaw clenched. To distract herself from the annoyance she shook out a few walnuts from the burlap sack they had been gifted in and began crushing them against one another between her fingers. The shells chipped away to reveal a thin inner membrane, which flaked down onto the table as well as her buckskin breeches.

‘Wait, wait!’ Alexander exclaimed. Adrienne paused but a moment. As soon as Alexander’s back was safely turned, resumed cracking the nuts between her fingers and her palm. This action produced a very satisfying noise though it left a frightful mess in her lap.

‘I have another present for you!’ he told her, looking about at the assembled company by way of explanation, indicating that her lack of manners should not be taken as a reflection of his own good character. ‘It was meant to go along with those walnuts. Here, if you would be so good.’ With an outstretched hand he proffered the package.

Adrienne ripped it open. The brown paper dropped away to reveal a silver nutcracker and three engraved picks meant for getting at the difficult bits. Her broad grin told the giver that this was a well-appreciated gift indeed, and she set to work worming the nutmeats from their shells irregardless of the mess this made. 

Alexander permitted himself to be pleased with his efforts, for he had done well this year. Gilbert was proudly wearing the hat Alexander had knitted him, with the long flaps covering his ears — useful when one is always going to and fro across the countryside. Angelica had been vocal in her appreciation of the books he had chosen — though she still had no clue as to their origins. John had been most grateful for the blanket he had knitted little Kitty, and the oranges procured at great expense for Philip, and his eyes shone with gratitude when he unwrapped his own present of a new pair of gloves.

As for George, he was presented with a half dozen newly made handkerchiefs, finely edged with tasteful white lace, and his initials stitched in the corners. He had admired these gifts for a long time, and at last, when it seemed he would not say anything at all, thanked Alexander for his kindness. He had not repaid it with one of his own choosing, however. Alexander’s face had fallen once he had realized that George had nothing to give him in return — not even a jar of jam or a diary with thick blank pages — but he quickly reprimanded himself for these selfish thoughts.

At last they had finished with the exchanges. Dinner was spread out upon the sideboard, and all they needed to do was go through to it. As the host, he was to give the signal that it was time to Adrienne, and upon her cue, they would all stand and follow her into the other room. He stood and brushed his hands down the front of his emerald green jacket to smooth it.

‘I believe we are done,’ he said, looking round the room with satisfaction. To Adrienne he then directed his subsequent remark. ‘Shall we go through to luncheon?’

She tossed a final walnut into her mouth and chewed it pensively. Everybody waited for her response, which came in the form of a muttered assent, standing whilst simultaneously hoisting her legs over Gilbert and departing without a word. Angelica, who was eating for two, was the first among the remaining company to follow her. Gilbert stretched out his long legs and wobbled his way out. John came next. He scooped up the baby, took Philip by the hand, and followed his wife into the dining room. Alexander was trailing after them, the last in the succession, when he heard George’s deep voice echo from the room he was about to vacate. 

‘Alexander,’ he said. Alexander looked over his shoulder to see that George was hanging back from the procession. He seemed bashful, almost, as ‘If you would be so good.’ He was holding out another parcel — one that must have been secreted about the room somewhere, for Alexander had not noticed it until now.

‘For me?’ he said, trying and not quite succeeding in keeping the excitement from his voice.

‘Yes,’ responded George plainly. A small smile played about his lips as he said this. 

The paper peeled back to reveal a box of white and gold, and when he opened it — a small mechanism rotated on the inside, set in an inlay of burgundy velvet, and from this wondrous contraption, music emerged! He was speechless. The gift must have cost a fortune, and more than that, wherever would he have obtained such a wondrous music box from? Such a thing was too fine for the shops in the village, and from the craftship lent by its appearance it seemed to have come from Bavaria, perhaps, or points south. And to think he had given George the equivalent of a young husband’s first feeble attempts at stitchery! He would have to find another gift that he could pass along when they were able to be alone, otherwise the reciprocity would be off-balance. 

George, for the account, would have been thrilled beyond measure to receive a kind word and another kiss from Alexander. He was altogether happy with the handkerchiefs, because Alexander had made them, and they had taken time, and consideration, and forethought. And because in some sentimental fashion, he loved everything which emanated from Alexander — even if his monogram was uneven on every corner and some of the lace was already splitting apart from the seams. He loved Alexander: his stubbornness, his churlishness, his passion, his slapdash household economy.

This was what he wanted the music box to say, as he found that he himself could not. ‘Happy Christmas, Alexander,’ George said, as he gazed upon Alexander fondly. Then he offered his arm in so gentlemanly a fashion that his husband took it unthinkingly and they went through together into the dining room, where feasting and family awaited them. 


	63. Chapter 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Mrs. Angelica's Schuyler's Political Prospects — What the Future May Hold — West Indian Memories — Private Overtures_

As their carriage bore them homeward the Schuylers agreed that the day had been a resounding success — punctuated only by Philip’s having poured gravy all over the dining table and staining the white cloth which covered it. And one would also have to add the interval between the pudding and the savoury course when Kitty, who had been sleeping off her own dinner peacefully was rudely awakened by the ill-timed clatter of the cheese knife, whereupon she woke up. The bellow that came from her tiny pink lungs was loud enough to rouse an army. But for a new mother and her mate, these irritations — undoubtedly dire, headache-inducing to others in their company — are considered beyond trivial; indeed, they are hardly noticed at all.

This is why their conversation concerned other, more significant matters, such as how Alexander’s cookery stood compared to where it was a year prior. 

‘In all, I dare say he is greatly improved,’ Angelica declared. Philip’s head rested in her lap, the faint sticky scent of oranges wafting up from his mouth. Baby Kitty was asleep at last, held snug against John’s chest. ‘I never thought I would see such a transformation in him. Why, I remember when he could barely boil an egg without it exploding in the pot! But perhaps Mr. Washington has made all the difference, for he appears much more conscientious now.’

John agreed vocally with this pronouncement, though he silently thought she was incorrect in her suppositions. All men live like this to an extent, insofar as it can be dangerous to even hint at disagreement with their wives. It is much easier to concur with everything superficial rather than to argue every little point. When the man has a reputation for being cheerful and easy to please, it will be in his wife’s best interest to keep him feeling that way.

John’s personal, unspoken opinion was that Alexander had improved because he had taken the time to do so, and this had transpired during Mr. Washington’s absence. At one point he might have undertaken the effort in an attempt to prove himself worthy of his marriage, his guardian, and the grand estate in which he now resided. Along the way, however, it had become a true vocation. Duty does not always preclude pleasure, as the fortunate men among us may comprehend — provided they have married well.

But here it was simpler to go along with his wife. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘You have cut straight to the heart of the matter as usual, my love.’

Angelica took the compliment without remarking on it. Instead she waited until the carriage had passed a particularly bumpy spot, waiting to see if either of her children would be awakened by the motion, and when they were not she then observed, ‘How dreadful it will be for him when General Washington is obliged to take up his command again. He must be recalled at any moment.’

Now, while we, dear Reader, are privy to the information that Mr. Washington was in no clear and present danger as far as his military career went — though he could, ostensibly, be recalled to his command at any point — this knowledge had not been revealed to any of our principals. They simply knew what was told to them, and believed wholly in it, as good people who have never been given ample cause to distrust authority.

George served at Her Majesty’s pleasure and would die, if he must, if that was Her will. Everybody was aware of this fact but good sense kept them from speculating upon it. However, we also know that Alexander had been planting the seeds of public opinion against warfare in his own way for a good while now.

(Along with this public action, he had privately raised the idea with John that Mr. Washington might find a way to extricate himself from his obligations. He had raised the matter some months prior, when George was in the deepest throes of his melancholy, and John had come round for a chat.

‘I think it can be done,’ Alexander had announced, frowning at where his thread had knotted itself on the backside of his embroidery. He reached for a pin with which to pick out the knot. ‘But it will require connexions and cunning beyond what I am able to muster.’

‘Whoever would even do such a thing?’ asked John, for he still did not quite grasp what bits of government exerted real control and which were carried out as mere formality for appearances’ sake.

‘Can your mother-in-law be swayed, I wonder?’ Alexander asked, quickly glancing up to gauge John’s reaction.

‘Lady Catherine will do what she wishes,’ John replied, pulling his own snarl-free thread through its backing. ‘And I cannot see who would ally themselves against her unless there were some strong reason to assume they would profit from it.’

‘Hm,’ said Alexander, wondering if he could sway her to his cause without the knowledge that he was behind the efforts, ‘that is so.’ And then they had carried on with their sewing and the conversation turned to other matters, such as the swelling in poor Angelica’s feet.) 

Back in the carriage on Christmas, John was contemplating more or less the same thing about Lady Catherine. She would give her political foes no quarter. But if the call were to come from within her party itself, rather than the opposition? If it came from someone she knew, a person she trusted? An ally, even? 

‘They seem very glad to be in one another’s company. May it last as long as Her Majesty sees fit,’ was John’s placid response to his wife.

‘Still,’ she sighed, leaning back against the seat as gingerly as she could without disturbing her daughter, who could naturally disrupt their evening’s peace merely by waking up, ‘It is good to see Alexander’s more outlandish qualities reigned in by someone sensible. I do not know what will become of him when Mr. Washington departs again.’

‘He has Mademoiselle de Noailles,’ John remarked, ‘and the Marquis; and you, and I, and the children. My own parents are but a day’s journey from Mount Vernon. He cannot suffer for want of company or even persons of good sense.’

‘Yes, you are correct,’ she replied, ‘there is society enough in to satisfy even the most discerning man.’  She folded her hands in her lap. If there had been anything to see along the carriage route then she might have looked through the window, but it was habit that turned her head to gaze out at the dark expanse of the roadside.

‘It is most unfortunate,’ John ventured, after an interval had passed, ‘for if a person could intervene on the General’s behalf — discreetly, of course — then it would be assured that Alexander’s good conduct would be forever secured.’

‘Naturally,’ she replied, with a tart acidity more befitting a wine than a retort to a loved one. ‘That would be for the best. I could not do it, of course, for my career demands that I not act on undue behalf of my personal relations.’

‘Nobody would suggest such a thing, my dearest,’ John assured her. ‘But it does raise the question of what might happen if a person were to introduce some measure that would allow Mr. Washington his freedom, but under the guise of a general law?’

‘Hmph,’ Angelica snorted.

‘One might go so far as to think,’ John ventured, ‘that a woman who did that, who opposed Lady Catherine publicly, might make a name for herself. She might in that way gain renown, certainly independence and the respect of her countrywomen.’

Like snowflakes caught in an updraft, thoughts whirled in Angelica’s mind. Now it was given to her to remain silent, until they settled.

‘She has my name,’ she answered at long last, ‘and I hers. In the public eye I am but a mere reflection of my mother.’

‘Perhaps,’ conceded John. ‘But if one were to speak more openly about the conscription of men more generally, what might come of that?’

Angelica thought hard on this. ‘It would enrage her,’ she said at last.

‘Is that all?’ John prompted. Slowly she was beginning to grasp the magnitude of his suggestion.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It would have untold effects on society. Ones I cannot even contemplate from my current position, but which would change everything as it now stands. If men were to be set free from the army willy-nilly, why, there is no end to what they might demand! They will be asking for the vote, next, and to enter into our colleges, to hold jobs! I have read the accounts, why, I have been gifted some books this very day that argue for the inalienable rights inherent to all people, men included!’

‘I see,’ said John, when he was certain she had finished. He, who had heard all these notions discussed in detail by Alexander and his compatriots. They seemed fairly silly to him — inordinately comfortable with his own life as it stood — but he had come to understand that other men might have differing opinions about their own autonomy. ‘How very clever you are, Angelica, to understand the stakes these notions carry. I am certain I do not understand one bit of it!' 

‘Indeed,’ she replied, in the darkness of the carriage, unsettled and excited all at once by the ideas John had put into her head, ‘clever indeed.’

~*~

 

A special quiet tends to descend after a holiday; when all the excitement fades away and merely the giddy exhaustion remains. Alexander had gone to bed as if it were an ordinary evening on which he had consumed an exceptionally large meal but sleep eluded him. He had struck a match in the dark to light the stub of candle that waited on his bedside table and made his way back downstairs to the large mullioned windows that were the eyes of the great hall. The house threw off hardly any light, for every window was darkened. While Alexander had been standing there and looking past his reflection out the window, the short candle end had burned down to its final half inch. The flame was flickering valiantly in the cold, wavering against its immanent extinguishment. 

A red letter day brings joy, but a bitter note follows such sweetness. Today Alexander’s thoughts turned to his father, whose whereabouts were still unknown to him (despite having made repeated enquiries to various relations these went unanswered), and darted from that man, loved and loathed, to his mother, for whom he had always harboured the most sincere affection.

By virtue of their being strangers together in a foreign land, Alexander’s mother had been his first and dearest friend. She had played with him — games of his own devising or from her own youth — and read to him from the Bible and shipping reports — and laughed at his foibles. He recalled hiding from her underneath the small table that was desk and dining table both, and how she would pretend, speaking aloud in a clear high voice, to have no idea where her son had got to, while he veritably quivered with excitement. Then her shoes would appear in his field of vision, and she would crouch down and exclaim, ‘There you are, my little duck!’ and would hold him in her arms while she laughed and laughed.

‘Alexander?’ said a voice from a place behind him. He had been so absorbed in his memories that he had failed to notice that George had crept up upon him like a cat. ‘Are you not yet abed? The hour is late.’

‘Is it?’ he asked without any conviction. Time seemed but an illusion when he was so close to Rachel. ‘I cannot sleep,’ he confessed, his gaze fixed immovably on the place where the drive leading away from the house disappeared into the impenetrable gauze of night. His thoughts flickered to his mother’s face, which in being remembered after such a passage of time, had lost the sharp contours evident in his childhood. It was blurry, her memory, but her face was echoed still in Alexander’s own reflection.

Rachel had shared Alexander’s thick dark hair (that was now shot through with gray as hers had been — well before she reached ten and a score), and his pointed chin, and his quick mind. But the resemblance was more than mere physicality. Above all else, the thread that connected them the one to the other, in this world and the next, was the unfailing capacity to believe the best of people, and to love them even when they have wounded you. It is a gift, and a folly, to live this way. 

George drew nearer. Alexander felt his movement as if the air itself were parting, a silken curtain drawing forward through which he would progress. Outside, just beyond the window, the snow blanketing Mount Vernon seemed to glow a pale orange, its brilliance turned into something otherworldly as it reflected the moonlight.

Alexander held his breath. He imagined that George was standing now directly behind him, ready to place his hands on Alexander’s shoulders and draw him into the lingering kiss that must await.

Instead what occurred was that the music box was opened from its place on the piano, and was wound with a cranking sound. For a moment the box whirred and clicked, and then its single tune started up, sweet and high and clear in the great chamber of the hall. Despite himself, all his melancholy and memories weighing heavy upon his heart, Alexander’s generous mouth broke into a smile.

On his heel he turned and looked at George, who seemed so very fierce in the guttering candlelight. And so stern, so handsome! 

George cleared his throat. He bowed, and even though he was clad in his nightclothes the motion was executed as perfectly as if he had been dressed in his full uniform. His posture, too, was that of a tall man in a red coat, its front decorated with golden buttons, gilded braid dangling from its shoulders.  Alexander’s thoughts bent to the memory, as crisp in his imagination as a flower pressed between the pages of a dictionary in the height of its bloom, of the first time he had seen George astride his horse. Odd that the uniform which so endeared him to George, made him look favourably upon his appearance, was also the very thing that had sent his husband into a foreign land, and which brought him home a broken man. The uniform and all it stood for had driven a wedge between them.

But here — Alexander in his nightshirt, the untied collar gaping wide enough to expose his collarbones — George in his loose trousers and bare feet, they met as equals. In the great dance of life, a man is always in pursuit of a partner. Occasionally he will meet someone that is worthy of the name. 

George lifted his head. From the open box, music tinkled. The low-burnt candle shone valiantly against the darkness.

Alexander’s body reacted before his tired mind did. One ankle crossed behind the other; he bent the knee even before he was aware he was doing so. The movement sparked a feeling in him that he had long since pushed aside, in favour of politics, and industry, and domestic economy. Still, his body remembered. How he, too, longed to be remembered and discovered anew. 

‘I wonder, Mr. Hamilton,’ said George, in the stiff manner of a former soldier who has not had occasion to dance in a great long while, but who adheres to the protocol of an earlier age, ‘if you are not engaged for the next dance you might do me the very great honour of taking a turn about the room with me.’

Polite and formal though the language was, the desire was writ clear upon George’s face. Alexander responded as clever people tend to do, and made a joke about the matter.

Looking about the enormous, empty room he said with a teasing manner, ‘But we have no other couples.’ His smile was broad and happy as he delivered the words. ‘It will be a very empty dance indeed should it be only the two of able us to perform it.’

Again was the great man’s throat cleared. George licked his lips. ‘I am thinking that I should engage you,’ he said with more force this time round, a rasp to his voice, ‘perhaps for a dance that requires only two partners be present. I can see no other couples, but you and I. And as we are here,’ and he indicated with his chin the music box, tinkling happily atop the piano, ‘and there is a tune playing, why should we refrain from doing so?’

At this declaration Alexander found himself flabbergasted. A dance without a company! Two partners! He was on the verge of forming a query but then the answer presented itself nearly immediately, and thus Alexander was spared the indignity of asking that for which he already knew the answer.

‘Can you mean—?’ he asked, his lips dry, ‘are you saying—?’

‘If you please, Mr. Hamilton,' George came to his rescue, 'may I have the honour of asking for your hand for the waltz?”

Beneath his collar, Alexander’s neck grew hot as coal. Nevertheless he did not permit his agitation to show upon his face and instead replied, ‘If you wish it, kind Sir, then it would be my particular honour. Only understand that I have never intended to convey the impression that I am a connoisseur of that entertainment. I have danced but a single waltz in my time.' 

George backed away, his demeanour polite. And he looked handsome, and while none of the expressions that usually graced George’s face could be called a smile — it was naturally too stern a face to ever smile easily, though this served only to intrigue rather than offend Alexander.

'We must remedy that,' he said, 'may I?' 

In a country dance the partners bow to one another from across a distance. They join hands, only that, and then only for a brief, glancing moment before they part again. Yet despite the movement hither and thus it is possible to conduct a conversation, though this must of course be on topics suitable enough to be overheard by the other couples without causing a stir: society, country walks, music.

However when the dance in question is the waltz then the partners stand in a closed position for the whole of the dance. Never once do they part ways, and for however long the music lasts they stand in proximity; a hand on someone’s shoulder; another resting gently against their back, and move in this way, together.

‘Mr. Hamilton,’ said George, and how lovely it was to feel wanted again. To be given an opportunity to begin anew — and love and be loved with all his many faults, rather than in spite of them.

They bowed to one another, signalling the beginning. Alexander stepped in, and then George did. 

A hand found a shoulder; the waist was lightly encircled. Together they moved in the confines of the dance, which prescribes one's steps, and orbit, and yet even still — within these boundaries, great emotions may swell, as real as anything. We may only act in the ways society permits, but every so often something new comes along, such as a waltz or a revolutionary, and they change the nature of what we consider possible.

‘I am overcome,’ Alexander managed at last, as he knew not what to say to indicate his joy. ‘For as long as I have lived, words have been my constant. When I first came to this land — without friend or companion — the books I secreted from Lady Catherine’s study were my only consolation.’

George was quiet. Sometimes a person simply needs to speak, and be heard.

'But words fail me,' he said, and his eyes were shining in the dark. 'Words cannot begin to express my love for you, George. They seem as inadequate as anything, mere gossamer.' 

By way of answer, George lifted Alexander’s hand to his own and clasped it against his heart. As the music had stopped they had ceased to move in the steps required by the dance, and were now instead holding one another close and swaying back and forth. 

‘Shall I wind it again?’ George asked, his expression altogether sombre. Behind him, the music box sat placidly waiting for their decision. 

From his position on George’s chest Alexander shook his head to signal that no, he was finished with music. 

George brought Alexander’s hand to his mouth and bestowed upon it a very well-mannered kiss, his lips grazing a spot between the third and fourth knuckles, oddly sensitive it seemed to Alexander, to be a place atop his hand. It felt scorched.

Then as if this was an insufficient gesture, George applied his lips to the remaining knuckles, beginning with the smallest finger and working his way inwards. This meant that the middle of Alexander’s hand was kissed twice. However in order to obtain access to the joint which connected the thumb to the hand and this, further down to the wrist, George was obliged to turn his palm upright. Thus it happened that the kiss on Alexander’s thumb was also laid upon his palm, and this contact caused the skin of his scalp to tighten. George brought up his other hand to hold Alexander’s one in both of his, and skimmed his teeth along the length of his forefinger.

This elicited a gasp which was quickly swallowed by a kiss. The candle melted down to its final guttering gasp, and was extinguished. Made brave by the darkened room, George leaned down and kissed Alexander. If the kiss beneath the mistletoe had been the overture, then this was the swelling crescendo that uplifted them both. This time he clasped Alexander close, strong arms enfolding him, silence surrounding them. 

Given that Alexander had been some time in answering his earlier question, George was inclined to think they required no musical accompaniment for what was about to transpire. He pulled back, held Alexander’s cheeks in his palms and kissed his forehead, his eyelids — any place that he had yet to cover with kisses — and Alexander clutched at George’s arms, marvelling at their strength. He was borne aloft on this attention, these touches. 

‘Can you—’ his voice caught on the words. ‘If you are able — the stairs, I mean—’

George smiled then, and though it suited him poorly — some men are more pleasant to look upon when they seem sullen, though why this should be the case is anybody’s guess — and replied, ‘I think they will be within my grasp.’

The two men wished to be up those stairs as quickly as possible but this proved difficult when every step offered Alexander — who was walking ahead with George’s hand clasped in his own — a chance to turn and be on a level height, taller even by a fraction with his husband. This transpired to be so novel, for how delightful was this, as well, to place his hands on the side of George’s upturned face and look down at it! For a man of average height this was altogether thrilling. 

Suffice it to say, that they made it there in due course. Many kisses were delivered upon the way, accompanied by breathy declarations of intent that do not bear repeating. We will state only that in revisiting the roles in which they began their marriage were Alexander and George able to discover their forgotten intimacies, which were all the better for it. Through the doorway they went, and there, Reader, we leave them to one another.


	64. Chapter 64

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _One Day More — A Morning at Mount Vernon — Church Bells Ringing — General Washington is Summoned_

The moon waxed full. It waned thin. The calendar struck a new year and the moon (late as always) another, some weeks later. Women bled, men fussed; — life, in short, continued as it always does, in ways more or less imperceptible because we are changed along with it.

For sixteen phases of the moon (or thereabouts), Alexander and George were given over to that happy state where nothing of consequence ever seems to happen. In retrospect these are almost always looked back upon as being the happiest times in a man’s life, though it would be difficult to catalogue what, precisely, took place in the interval.

We find them today on a perfectly ordinary morning — the weather utterly unremarkable in every particular — on an unimportant date located at the midpoint between Easter (early that year, but the moon keeps to her own calendar) and Midsummer’s Day.

George rose early from his own narrow bed. While he was a frequent visitor to Alexander’s chambers — to be accurate, three times a week or thereabouts — both men had come to consider him a guest rather than a resident there. While the stairs had proved a minor impediment to their cohabitation, though George had carried Alexander up them more than once, in truth both men found that they enjoyed one another’s company to a greater, deeper extent if they were permitted to sleep alone more often than not.

This is not to say that George did not enjoy his nights as a guest, and indeed he took solace in them, especially when he was awoken by a mind which found it distressingly necessary to revisit the horrors of wartime between the hours of one and four o’clock. At such times it was a great comfort to be startled in his dreams — by a slow-moving object that he could neither dodge nor react to quickly; the light fading from a comrade’s eyes; the repellent sensation of boots filled with mud and blood in equal quantity in which he was bid to march towards an ever-receding horizon — and to pass through the icy wall that separates sleep from wakefulness to find himself warm, secure, held in Alexander’s arms.

Yet for all that, the bed was too soft for his liking. Too wide, even pressed against his husband. It also bears mention that Alexander tended to kick, and to talk in his sleep, and that he stayed awake much later than George did. A good marriage will find both partners happy to heed the calls of both sun and moon, together. Failing that, they will do well to respect the other’s internal timetable and not quarrel about that which cannot, save at great cost, be altered.

On this morning, as on most save the extraordinary ones, George roused himself early — as much from habit as preference — and engaged in the following sequence of events:

First, he splashed cold water on his face and about his person. Then he went to the kitchen and fixed himself a cup of warm water adorned with a mere sliver of citrus, which he drank standing up. This having been consumed, he took himself outside into the courtyard in order to watch the sun slip above the horizon — its colours today were mainly pink and orange, streaked across with watery purple clouds. Following this he folded his legs and sat with his thoughts — more accurately, sat with his mind as clear from thought as his will could make it — and then moved on to the strengthening of his body through his usual routines, performed in various states of undress as the weather allowed. Given that on this particular morning the air was soft with barely a whisper of damp, he saw no need for a shirt to hinder his movements.

Alexander was, naturally, very much still abed.

When he returned to the house George dressed himself according to whatever tasks the day held; usually in simple work clothes, unless he had cause to ride to the village or receive a visitor. Only then did he at last take a small biscuit for his breakfast, which he ate while rereading the previous day’s diary. The London specialist (with whom George had by now consulted with in-person on multiple occasions) had spoken of the great relief many of her other patients had found in writing down their thoughts with absolutely no obligation to share them with a living soul. At first this had seemed a tedious and thoroughly pointless exercise. However after a period of adjustment George found himself enjoying the reflection. Unlike Alexander, whose written work demanded audience, attention, response — George could only transmit his thoughts to himself when there was no danger of another living soul taking an interest in what he wrote down. But he was a most private person, as many people are, and so perhaps it should come as no surprise that he was helped best by actions which respected that quality.

This morning he inscribed in neat, studied handwriting that he had slept without terror, save for a small interlude when he had found himself riding alone on Nelson. In the dream he implicitly knew, rather than saw, that all the rest of his company had been killed in the last battle, where they were outmatched beyond imagining. As he plodded on through empty towns and villages, mud dragging heavy on his boots, it seemed the whole world was emptied of its people. He had woken from this unpleasant state with a gasp, then looked about, finding solace in Alexander’s face in repose. Consequently when he drifted off again the subsequent dream involved his husband and a boat, floating along the length of a languid river whose banks were unknown to him. From that state he was happy not to wake abruptly, and he wrote this sentiment down as well. Then he mentioned the sunrise, and some thoughts which had come to him during his morning sitting, and actions he wished to accomplish that day. Following that he collected the post and papers which were delivered in the mornings — at a delay of three days' time from London town — and set them out for Alexander to peruse at his leisure over breakfast.

It was while George was laying these upon the table that our Alexander rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He stretched and felt a pop in the base of his spine which caused him to wince, as the sound was quite shocking, after which time he rolled onto his stomach and enjoyed the sensation that it brought him. In due time he roused himself from the bed, wrapped himself in such garments as propriety required, and in this delightfully rumpled state took the stairs slowly, for his senses were dulled by sleep.

George was to be found in the kitchen behind the stove. Even addled as he was, Alexander smiled to see him there, his dark brows knit in concentration as he prepared breakfast. The man could fix eggs in one of two ways — fried hard and fried slightly less hard — but he made excellent toast, fixing all his concentration upon the two-tined fork with its precious cargo of golden bread. A piping hot pot of tea awaited Alexander on the vast expanse of the dining table, sat atop the same spot where it had been placed, lovingly, by George, on hundreds of mornings. Innumerable water rings had sprung up on the wood because of it, but the table (which had been in Martha’s family since the Restoration) did not look any worse for the wear.

‘Good morning, Alexander,’ said George, once the toast’s safety was assured.

The tea could have been stronger, and so it took a few sips before Alexander was able to reply to the greeting with any muster.

‘Good morning to you as well,’ he said, and took another long draught until the cup was drained. As he poured anew the tea splashed against the china cup. He added milk, sugar, stirred. The smell alone was fortifying enough to allow Alexander to reach for the post. A letter from Eliza — which he set aside for last, as it was sure to bring great enjoyment and he wished to savour it — a strongly worded notice, the second in a series, from the tavern that Adrienne’s account was still some months overdue — a missive from Mr. Allen, speculating about what might come of the legislature’s liberalising position regarding personal property inherited by widows — and a response to an enquiry submitted many months prior, a story about a dashing widow and young rake, which was rejected outright as being _'u_ _nsuitable for our readership, who pride themselves on being decent young men of sense and honour.'_

‘Bad news?’ George asked, noticing Alexander’s slight frown. He slid a plate containing the hard-fried eggs and two pieces of toast before him, though he was engrossed in his rereading.

Why, if they wished for scandal, then he would be only too happy to provide it! Already deliberating an alternative outlet for publication, he wagged his head and reached for the cutlery. ‘Everything as it should be,’ he said, and accepted a kiss on the cheek before buttering his toast. 

‘I see that she has not written,’ George observed, taking a seat in the chair across from Alexander and folding his hands upon the table.

‘She never writes,’ Alexander said with an airy wave of his hand. ‘If she is well, there will be no word. If you see an envelope from her then you may have due cause for agitation.’

George chuckled. His face relaxed as he watched Alexander devour his breakfast, finishing the eggs and wiping his fingers on the napkin before turning, after a most pleasurable delay, to Eliza’s correspondence. He read the letter until the end once, slowly, with a fixed plan to revisit it later on. It would join all the rest in a box, which he opened whenever life at Mount Vernon felt too far from Monmouth, and he felt far from his former self. It is good to be reminded of our origins through old friends, for they keep us humble, and ensure our honesty.

To George he now said, ‘You are given a share in the opening compliments, Mr. Washington, and dear Eliza wishes you health and happiness.’

George accepted the salutation gratefully. Alexander continued, skimming over the bits that described her attempts to get with child, which were all too intimate to share. It was not, she admitted, for lack of trying, but dear John was so anxious that it caused them no end of difficulty. Prudently, Alexander focused instead on the other news. ‘Oh you will want to hear this,’ he exclaimed, ‘It concerns Peggy, Lady Catherine’s youngest. She is, as I think you may remember, on the cusp of her twenty-fifth year.’

There was a silence where George absorbed the monumental weight of this pronouncement.

‘As I was saying,’ he continued, ‘she will take neither suitor nor husband. She has made it very clear — against the express wishes of her mother — that she fully intends to enter in service to Her Majesty’s Royal Army. Now, what say you to that!’

‘She will do well,’ George decided, after a period of deliberation. He did not know Peggy’s character except indirectly, but he remembered the fondness Alexander felt for her. ‘If Lady Catherine’s influence can provide her with a placement then so much the better. But I ought to warn you, that with our troops stretched so thin upon the ground, she may see active duty all too soon.’

‘I will be certain to mention it in my reply,’ he said, and folded the letter back up. He went to pour more tea from the pot, but having drunk the greater part was only able to obtain a fraction of a cup from it. Noticing his distress, George rose and returned to the stove to prepare more.

Having done with the breakfast and correspondence both, Alexander now turned his attention to the papers which had been patiently waiting their turn.

First, as always, was _The Times_ which bore a regular column entitled _Late and Most Interesting News from France._

Alexander read the words casually before he absorbed their sense. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, the near-empty teacup _en route_ to his lips. It was slammed onto the table as Alexander, knowing not what else to do, stood up straightaway.

Thinking, quite naturally, that Alexander was suffering some mishap, George abandoned the boiling water and ran to his side. Together they examined the newsprint, where, beneath the date and place of issue — London, hub of the known world, as if any other place could matter — were written the words:

_French Troops in Retreat Following Major Setback_

A shock washed over them both. What had happened since the paper’s printing? Was the pretender at long last besieged? At a word from Alexander, George wasted no time in saddling Nelson and riding hard for the village. Arriving winded at the newsagents' he bought one of every paper they had in stock, including (in his agitation) the dailies that had already been delivered to his home.

The stockist could offer no further information, but she told George, ‘Now see here, my good man. Come round tomorrow mornin' and I will have news from the capital, all right?’

George thanked her and brought armfuls of papers home, which, breaking with their routine, he and Alexander devoured together at table until teatime. The day stretched into a slow slog — the timelessness wrought by anxiety— and it was with difficulty that Alexander at last began a reply to Mr. Allen and George went to muck out the sheep’s quarters.

The following day brought the news that would usher in a new era of peace and prosperity. George and Alexander rode together to the village — George forgoing his exercise and Alexander his eggs — where the bundles of papers were being unloaded. And that noise, what of it — could they hear the church bells ringing? Oh, there it was, in rustling black and white: 

_Despatches from the Front:_

_Paris Taken!_

At long last!

For a few days they hungered for news and life fell apart with ecstasy and celebration. Each morning they rode together, read together. The horrible Corsican was to be sent into exile where he could no longer wield influence over impressionable, stupid, angry men. However, celebrations were cut short. On the third day since their learning of the pretender’s rout, a messenger arrived in the afternoon with a summons for George.

She saluted, left. With shaking hands he opened the letter. Alexander, who was trying to see over his shoulder, stamped his foot with impatience. ‘Well?’ he demanded, ‘what say they?’

‘A tribunal,’ George said despondently. His friend and comrade General Lee, whose greed and ambition had given George a reprieve we have thus far called freedom, was held on charges of conspiring with the enemy for pecuniary gain. Treason, dear Reader, if we may be so bold — though his guilt was as yet indeterminate from a legal perspective, from our own vantage point we can most clearly name it thus.

‘I am called to London,’ said George, handing over the letter. ‘I must make arrangements at once.’

‘You?’ asked Alexander. He blocked George’s large body from moving with his smaller one, and looked up at him — they needed more time! It could not be over so soon! — and said, without waiting to be dissuaded, ‘Oh, sod it, George. I am coming with you!’


	65. Chapter 65

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _At Black's — Women and Violence — Preparations for the Trial — Charles Lee's Untimely Fate_

Paris was taken; Paris was held. England thereby celebrated with returning the claret to the drinks cabinet where it rightfully belonged. Proper Champagne gurgled like a stream overflowing its meager banks after a spring thaw. Why, at Black’s one could hardly hear the women speak over the popping of corks and the clinking of glasses!

Through the din and smoke can we only just discern the figures of Mrs. Dolley Madison, Lady Catherine Schuyler, and her daughter, Mrs. Angelica Schuyler — noting that the last of these will soonforth find her personal convictions tested in political matters.

In the meantime, however, these three ladies had finished their tea — Angelica being currently satisfied with two splendid children and not inclined to hasten the arrival of a third — and were calling for claret and cigars. Their conversation circled round to Charles Lee and the matter of his trial. The decision to bring him back to England had to do with the necessity of finding enough fair-minded women to sit as jury and judge. As every military commander of the superior sex was at present stationed in France, holding various outposts for the Crown, it would be no small feat to gather ten women with enough authority to sentence him fittingly. When a man has been raised in the military there is little sense in banishing him to its service as punishment, for one, and despite the general mercy behind our laws, ordinary citizens nonetheless hunger for savagery.

Some falsely claim that women prefer not to commit violence themselves, as it reminds them of their own intimate acquaintance with bloodshed. This is a horrible oversimplification which persists in part because our military women are simply far too busy — with logistics, strategy, mapmaking, engineering, transport of men and _matériel_ — to counter the assumption. But perhaps there is a truth contained therein that should give us pause for reflection. The chief difference here is that while women do _appreciate_ violence as spectacle they are less inclined, overall, to enact it by their own hands. Why else would we keep strong men in reserve for such purposes?

A discussion that illuminates this distinction was presently underway.

‘He should be hanged,’ was what Mrs. Madison had to say on the matter of Charles Lee, officer and gentleman. By our laws he was entitled to death by firing squad, were he so unfortunate as to be found guilty of high treason. For lesser crimes a soldier might only be sent into exile, or locked away in a home for miscreants and wayward husbands. Either would be preferable, when it came right down to it, but the law brooks no quarter for those who betray Her Majesty.

‘I concur,’ answered Lady Catherine, and clinked her glass against that of her friend. How magnificent the wine tasted, all the richer for having gone without it these past years. ‘It would give me no end of satisfaction to see him swing.’

Angelica raised her own glass along with theirs, but privately she thought the practice odious indeed, rare though it may be. Her temperament was such that the very notions repulsed her.

‘And his head on a spike at the end of London Bridge!’ Mrs. Madison exclaimed, by now quite intoxicated with the thought of seeing Charles Lee brought to bloody justice. ‘Like they used to do in olden days, whyever not!’ Again the ladies toasted and drank deeply. Intoxicating thoughts of retribution and deterrence aside, there were other reasons for Mrs. Madison's high spirits as of late. She had married off her only son Payne to Ms. Bunce, marking that young lady’s passage to adult womanhood, and making her son a most fetching newlywed. They were trying, as all couples do, for a girl.

Now that she was free to take her second husband, Mrs. Madison was happily availing herself of the opportunity to entertain suitors right and left, even some who were terribly unfit as companions but were nevertheless very fine to look upon. We cannot fault her for this practice, for it is an immensely pleasurable time in a woman’s life. Once she has done her duty for the reproduction of society and married off her children at last, a woman of a certain age may seek a companion for the second stage in her adult life. And there are so many lovely young men to choose from, dark-complexioned and with fine pink tongues, ready with a kiss and a compliment.

Having successfully changed the topic to the trials of her own courtship, and the various men who were currently holding her interest, Mrs. Madison encouraged Lady Catherine to follow her example. ‘You must try it,’ said Mrs. Madison to her friend, after which she provided Angelica with a knowing smile, for all women are discreetly aware of that thing called appetite. Angelica, for her part, merely blinked.

‘It must happen soon enough,’ Lady Catherine agreed, though she anticipated some reluctance at home when she initiated the search; Philip being a sensitive man, and quick to think of his own shortcomings.

‘Though if the truth be told I would much prefer to be looking for a husband for my youngest than for myself. The other two were little trouble—’ at this Angelica’s neck grew hot, as it always did when her mother spoke about her as if she were not present, ‘—but Peggy!’

Mrs. Madison tutted in sympathy. There was no shame in a daughter joining up, provided it was someone else's daughter. Nevertheless these decisions tended to weigh heavily upon the mother, who interpreted the odd desires as emanating from her own failings as a parent.

‘I truly believe, Dolley,’ continued Lady Catherine with a bleak expression, ‘that it is not too late, even now, to avert what will come.’ She was dour in general. More specifically, she was cross that Peggy had stubbornly refused anything Lady Catherine could offer, even the hand of her oldest friend’s only son. This spoilt the prospects of connecting their families, which would have made a useful political alliance beyond what friendship could bear. And now Payne was married to Mrs. Bunce, thus precluding any connexion between the houses of Schuyler and Madison.

‘You know as well as I do, Cady,’ replied Mrs. Madison, with a wag of her head borne of long familiarity, ‘that her choice is for the best. And she will rise in that milieu, of that you must be certain.’

Silent as the older women conversed, Angelica hoped fervently that the line would continue without her needing to divert its course. Alas, this was not to be the case, as Mrs. Madison then proceeded to enquire about Angelica’s own mother-in-law, who had taken a second husband of her own late in the previous year, and was by all accounts enjoying herself tremendously. Whether the same could be said of her husband was not touched upon even once in their discussion, but then it seldom is a matter of concern for wives in general. 

 

~*~

 

In their rented rooms in Leicester Square, George and Alexander were engaged in a most strenuous activity which taxed them both to their utmost. It demanded every bit of Alexander's attention and George's physicality. George’s heart was racing and sweat had broken out across his broad brow. He would have liked to dab it away with a handkerchief, but forced himself to hold very still and look as serious as he could under the circumstances. He found it displeasurable to be the object of such scrutiny, and squirmed as he felt Alexander’s gaze rove across his person and up to his face. There was also the delicate matter of there being a third party present, watching the whole proceedings with an unrelenting and curious eye.

‘For how long have you known the accused?’ asked Alexander, peering over his spectacles in his best simulation of a barrister. ‘And in what capacity have you known him?’

‘One at a time,’ Angelica cautioned. She smiled at George, who looked worried by the proceedings. He shifted on his feet and readjusted his posture. ‘Do not overwhelm the poor man.’

He cleared his throat and said, in essentially the same manner, ‘If you would be so good, General Washington, to tell the court in what capacity and for how long you have been acquainted with the accused?’

‘I first became acquainted with Charles Lee six years ago,’ George said primly. His voice was clear and unwavering, despite the sweat standing out on his forehead, which threatened to descend into his eyes at any inopportune moment. ‘He was assigned to my command at Rouen.’

‘If you would be so good,’ his husband said, now clasping his hands behind his back and pacing about, ‘what opinion did you form of his character during those initial meetings? Did he strike you as a man of honour? Of good sense and reason? Did you find him to be honest and fair-minded in his approach, or were you aware even then of his wholly duplicitous nature?’

George’s eyebrows knit together. He looked to Angelica, who was standing with arms akimbo and shaking her head, for assistance.

‘It is all wrong,’ she declared, stepping in. ‘You are leading the witness, Alexander. It is far too many questions, and with what aim?’

‘They will ask such things!’ he told her, treading heavily across the same patch of parquet. ‘See if they do not!’

‘You know perfectly well that neither you nor I will have any knowledge of what they can and will ask,’ she snapped back. Then she lowered her voice and said, ‘But they will not be nearly so bold from the outset, of that I am certain. And I have never seen a barrister walk about as if she was in danger of being shot by a musket if she stopped pacing back and forth for but a moment.’

Alexander was affronted. Taking her admonishment under advisement he did his best to hold still, though he was not entirely successful in the enterprise. Instead of pacing he was now bouncing up and down on his toes. This action was only marginally less irritating to Angelica’s mind, and she glared in the hopes that he might cease doing so. He did nothing of the sort, but as he would never see the inside of a courtroom anyways, she allowed it to pass.

‘Well, I never! I have read books—’ he tried, but Angelica would have none of his idle speculation. She knew from experience what happens inside those closed-off chambers, and was quick to remind him of it. 

‘Even the most salacious and exciting trial is never like a book,’ she remonstrated. ‘It is simply asking a hundred variations on the same question in the hopes of bringing about some new information, but in all actuality, the goal is merely to wear down the witness until she cannot think straight. You have my word on it, Alexander, that it will be exceedingly dull.’

‘This trial?’ he said, dark eyes flashing. ‘My husband stands to be accused of treason by association and, there is naught which is dull in that, I can most readily assure you!’

Angelica tried again to make him see sense. ‘It is General Lee’s character that they seek to understand. General Washington is an honourable man in every regard and capacity. His superiors are suitably aware of this fact, and no one seeks to question it. I promise, Alexander. It will merely be more tedious than you could ever imagine, but that is all. George is not the one in danger.' 

He glowered. George was patient as ever while they worked out their different perspectives on the matter, and availed himself of the opportunity to discreetly chase the sweat from his brow as they clamoured to both be correct. Alexander wanted to fight with everything he had for George’s heretofore unbesmirched honour; Angelica to uphold the letter of the law. And of course they were both right at the same time.

Truth be told George had not minded Alexander’s pointed line of questioning, but that was undoubtedly owing to its origin in Alexander and not (as it would be in court) emanating from the mouth of a fearsome military woman trained in the art of public speaking. Even though he had done nothing wrong himself, for he had given neither aid nor comfort to the French under any circumstances, nevertheless it pained him to admit that General Lee had been duplicitous from the start. It called into question the foundations of what he had, up until the man’s true nature became known through the interception of a coded message, considered a genuine friendship. In any case, his mind was all a-muddle, and he was dumbfounded as the two siblings argued over the right way to conduct the interview.

‘Again,’ Angelica sighed, failing to convince Alexander that he would be better served by acting rationally than with such passion. ‘Try it again, and this time speak as dully as you can.’

Alexander adjusted his spectacles and said, more calmly, ‘If you will tell us from the beginning, General Washington, how and in what capacity you first came to know the accused.’ He paused and, at a nod from Angelica continued by saying, ‘If you would be so good as to observe your impressions of his character from the time of your initial acquaintance up to the present then we will add these to the official account.’

‘Very good,’ Angelica said with approval. George’s mouth glimmered in the trace of a smile; he was proud. ‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘Yes, Alexander, very good indeed.’

 

~*~

 

Reader, we will spare you the tribulations which comprised the trial itself. While less dull than Angelica had suspected, it was still a fairly tedious affair as it got underway. Yet London was transfixed nonetheless, for death is so rarely meted out within our borders that it cannot but capture our citizens’ imaginations. Particular attention was given over to the handsome widower whose heartfelt testimony was so sincere that observers were rumoured to have wept as he gave it.

Two matters are all that need be mentioned here: one, that rumours abounded regarding General Lee’s missing ear, with fanciful stories arising in the press about how it had been lost, and Alexander himself adding his own speculation into the mix under the _nom de plume_ Madam Yvette Roch; and secondly, that — even as Paris was occupied and the garrisons held under strong force — the miniscule pretender escaped from exile, which thereby demanded a full-scale resurgence and retaliatory force on both land and sea. Thus there was by necessity a recess in the proceedings while Lady Wellington dealt the final blow to that engagement which had now spanned two centuries and cost countless lives.

Charles Lee was sent back to his tower prison while these actions were underway. Once it was brought to his attention that the uprising was quashed without mercy, he decided to act in the only way which remained to him, and hanged himself in his cell with his bedsheets as noose. 

Mrs. Madison, for the record, was distressed to have missed the opportunity to witness it. She relished the artistic renderings which the papers helpfully printed for the curiosity of the populace, and saved each one in a tissue-lined box to look at when life seemed painfully dull otherwise.


	66. Chapter 66

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _General Washington Receives His Summons — An Evening's Entertainment Alexander's Novel Idea — Masculine Wiles in Action_

Hearing the most unfortunate news regarding Charles Lee, a gloominess came upon George that greatly frightened Alexander in its severity. It reminded him that the peace George had fought for was fragile, and that a setback could occur without warning. To this end, Alexander considered George’s continued good health dependent upon his remaining in one place. Mount Vernon had evidently brought him solace and peace of mind, not to mention respite from loneliness and bloodshed. Consequently, Alexander wished him to remain, and to his mind such desire was entirely selfless, as it would benefit George above all else. Any pleasure Alexander would derive from it would be entirely incidental.

George desired also to stay put in the place where he had convalesced, for it provided him with stability even when those bleak, shadowy moods came upon him. In all, Mr. Washington had counted himself immensely fortunate in being able to absent himself from his post for such an uninterrupted stretch during wartime. But be that as it may, whether he spends a month amongst society or a duration of some years, a man to the military nearly-born finds it difficult (even at great cost to his personal happiness) to fully reconcile with civilian life. The army possesses its own forms of tedium, true, but there is nonetheless friendship, and laughter, and the smell of roast meat, and a tent under the open stars for those who wish it.

Yes, that unhappy circumstance which they had long feared was upon them at last. They had remained in London following the tribunal and the subsequent news about Charles Lee, for George now fully expected to be summoned in short order. And so that event too came to pass in the appearance of a piece of heavyweight parchment bound with an official red ribbon. In formal language it announced that — barring immediate, unforeseen circumstances — General Washington was expected to report to London headquarters in a week’s time. There he would undergo a medical examination and a mental one, and thereafter a dispatch to the east for an undisclosed period.

Immediately upon receipt of this missive, George excused himself from the house on the pretext of having business at the bank which had previously slipped his mind. An honest man disinclined to falsehood, he spent the duration of his walk about town fretting about what questions Alexander would put to him on his return. Many harmless black lies were constructed and practised as he crossed this street and that, and his absorption in these mental gymnastics rendered him indifferent to the activity and purpose that undergirds city life. Very nearly he almost ran headfirst into a carriage owing to his distraction.

Fortunately, Alexander had taken the dreadful news badly and, in an unusual departure from his typical loquaciousness, asked not a single question upon George’s return and so forestalled the necessity of his pretending at mendaciousness. Oddly enough, he was silent all that night, and the following morning, and merely replied to his husband’s attempts at conversation with the slightest hums and affirmations.

They went about their days as usual. George was wholly dispirited at the summons, for it meant his certain return to the occupation. It behooves him and us alike to remember that as postings went, it could have been far worse. Peacekeeping would not be a great hardship, and if it held he might be able to snatch one or two visits each annum to Mount Vernon, to deal with the tenants and to make fervent love to his Alexander. He would always cherish the interlude where the world knew only war but — whether by Providence or Fortune or mere good luck — he had been able to at last know peace.

It suited the two men to be silent yet completely immersed in one another’s company. The immanent hour of parting brought a newfound urgency to their private meetings, which were now more frequent than they had been at any time since they were first married. On the fifth full day since the summons had arrived, with but two nights remaining before George was expected to undergo his examinations, they were once more engaged in protracted exercise as had been occurring at regular intervals throughout the day and night. This meant that the clockhand had passed the twelve o’clock mark when they found it within themselves to finally rest.

Alexander lay back against the pillow. His hair fanned out against it, a stark, sensuous contrast of black on white. With a deflating of his lungs he sighed, and then asked a question to which George had as yet been unable to answer to his satisfaction. ‘Will they give you an opportunity to return to Mount Vernon one last time before you must leave again, do you reckon?’

‘I cannot fully speculate,’ George said, and took Alexander’s hand in his own, bending them both at the elbow in the direction of his mouth so he might kiss it. His husband smiled at the gesture, eyes closed from fatigue, as he went on to say, ‘but I can only suspect that I will be told to depart straightaway. If my contacts are correct then I expect to be sent to Jersey, to stay on there until such time as the garrison at Calais can be rebuilt.’

‘Was it very badly damaged?’ Alexander asked, his black eyes opening. He rolled onto his side and rested his head upon his upper arm. A lock of hair, sleek and shining, swished in front of his face. Their hands were awkwardly intertwined in this new position, and so George released his grip, all the better to lift his hand and with a careful brush of the tips of his fingers, tuck the stray lock behind Alexander’s ear. How lovely he looked, despite the few wiry white hairs that marred the perfect darkness!

‘It suffered greatly under cannon fire, yes. But the breaching of the levees caused the most damage to the structures. It is those which will need to be rebuilt. Some may even need to be torn down and begun afresh, though materials will certainly be in short supply at present. Brick will be hard to come by, and the stone quarries have been abandoned for some time.’ George found he hardly minded the prospect of hard work, but wondered if he would have the will to follow through with it once he was absent Alexander once more. It would keep him occupied at least, which seemed a cold comfort.

‘Must it be you who oversees it?’ Alexander asked in a small voice. George touched now the side of Alexander’s face, as if with his hands he might memorize the delicate shape of it. George allowed a small gust of air to escape his lungs. To answer the question he merely nodded.

‘But what if…’ Alexander began. He stopped there. He tapped his fingers against George’s strong chest and entertained in his mind a dangerous notion, not for the first time. If the authorities were to be believed, and they had warranted no reason why they should not be by either words or actions, then real peace was truly upon them. A lasting peace that would span a hundred years.

George could guard that very peace! He could serve his country in a wholly other capacity than on the battlefield. Presently he racked his memory to think if any such occurrence had happened in the past, and found that he could not. But just because it had never happened before now did not make it impossible. A man could leave the army, especially a husband and a widower. Why not him? Why not now? As we by this point in the narrative now comprehend, the very idea that anything could truly be impossible merely ignited Alexander’s passion to have it be otherwise. He sat up from the bed and groped for his spectacles on the bedside table, leaning over George as he did. The writing desk, by now battered beyond all recognition from use, was pressed into service atop the coverlet.

Watching curiously, George’s massive bulk shifted to accommodate the movements. ‘Surely your correspondence can wait for morning?’ he asked, a hurt quality to his deep voice. Alexander’s callousness wounded his pride, especially as they would soon be parted anew. His bare leg slid out from beneath the bedclothes, one big toe touched the floor. Perhaps he would go for another walk, despite the lateness of the hour.

‘No, George!’ he said, scribbling down words as they came into his mind. ‘An idea has only now come to me. The doctor you have seen, why can she not testify on your behalf? A medical and a mental examination, you say? Why then it is an easy matter. She will attest that you are unfit for duty. I dare say if we pay her enough she will offer words exactly as we wish them.’

‘Alexander!’ George was horrified at the notion. An honest woman would never take a bribe in any capacity, and hardly on behalf of a mere patient. And even worse, his husband expected him to lie outright to Her Majesty’s government!

‘Why not?’ Alexander’s pen moved across the page rapidly. He glanced up quickly, and then — complicated though it was to accomplish — held George’s gaze as he continued to write. Ink blobbed on the page and threatened to spill onto the bedsheets. He was not very good at doing two things at once.

The scratching sounds irritated George but he remained immobile in his position as he attempted to explain himself. ‘They have their own doctors,’ he said with perturbation. ‘I cannot claim to be ill when I am not, Alexander. It has been a long time since I have had a serious bout of melancholy, and my leg works well enough — though I admit the hip twinges when I ride Nelson — but they have seen me in the flesh now. There can be no more pretense that I am unfit for duty. My mind is sound enough for testimony, and my body is too.’

‘They have seen your body,’ Alexander said, now looking it over himself to make sure of its fitness, ‘but your mind may not be at peace. Why else would they include such a requirement?’

George hesitated to tell Alexander that the mental examination was pure formality, and that only a stark raving lunatic would be barred from re-entering the service, and then only if he threatened the doctor herself. Instead he alluded to his duty, which always seemed to do the trick. ‘It is the least I can do for my country, Alexander,’ he grumbled, annoyed that it had come to this. ‘Why, you of all people must see that I will be needed more than ever. The army will be in tatters after this latest rout, and morale will be low on account of Lee, I should think. I must be there to assist.’

‘Why cannot you be needed here as well?’ asked Alexander, now more determined than ever to prove his point. He let the pen fall onto the page as his hands spread wide with excitement. His voice pitched feverishly high as he continued, ‘On the ground rather than in the field? There will be plenty to repair in England now that peace is at hand.’

George shook his head yet again. This stubborn man he had married! ‘I go where I am commanded, Alexander. It is how things are done.’

‘But—’ Alexander stammered in his excitement. ‘Why, there is plenty you may do that can support the Army’s endeavours without it being active service. We can find you a job here, some occupation where you may remain in London, can we not? It is the home front?’

‘I am a soldier,’ George said glumly. ‘We grow old under oath. A ship may take me, or I will be set to other duties even further from here.’ He could not meet Alexander’s eyes, for they were mournful and pleading, already begging him to renounce his former life and give up the military. As if he could countenance such a thing!

Alexander was reminded, here, of his old tutors, who had told stories that had seemed outlandish at the time. A society of men only? But those men were entirely cloistered in one another’s company for the duration of their lives, and at least some of them would survive. ‘Perhaps you could become a tutor?’ he offered, ‘for the young men and boys who are drafted?’

George resettled himself against the pillows and brought his uncovered leg back up under the bedclothes. He settled in closer to Alexander’s warmth, and Alexander snuggled up against him. ‘That is something I would not wish upon anybody,’ he said, with a grave manner. ‘We have not spoken of what it would entail, but I will tell you now that it is not anything like your Mr. Franklin or what Gilbert does with his pupils. No, training the young is an even more sequestered life. If I were to be shipped to the Isle of Men then I very much doubt that we would be able to see one another again within this lifetime.’

‘Well, then what happens to men who live to see old age?’ Alexander asked, with more petulance than curiosity.

George cleared his throat and fixed his eyes on the nearest bedpost. ‘They remain with the unit in other capacities,’ was the answer. ‘There are plenty of jobs that need doing, such as the mess, or laundry. Hauling waste water and so forth. It is for the best,’ he said, though his heart and head told him otherwise.

‘Then,’ Alexander bit his tongue. He knew how much George depended on his duty, for it formed the core of his very being. But he also knew that duty, as notion, and honour, and obedience, had come to transcend whatever rôle he happened to play in the social structure. This posed a special challenge for Alexander, then, as he would have to reconstitute the very basis of what spoke to George’s soul.

‘Whyever,’ he ventured, with a gentle whisper, and a quivering lip, ‘whyever cannot you retire?’

‘Retire?’ George started, affronted. His own mouth went slack at the mere suggestion.

‘Or, better still, resign,’ Alexander said, more quickly now. ‘I am sure it has happened before. Men have families, obligations, even in the army.’

‘A family is a distraction,’ George said, as if he were parroting words from someone else. ‘Family is one’s unit, and the brigade.’

‘You married me,’ Alexander pointed out. George shook his head, though undoubtedly this logic was correct. ‘And before that,’ he went on, ignoring George’s noises in protest, ‘you were married to Martha. You are a father of sorts to her child, that must count for something among your superiors.’

‘It would be most unusual,’ was the response. ‘I cannot recall it ever having happened before.’

‘You yourself are unusual, though!’ cried Alexander, with all the weight of passion upon him. The desk and its attendant papers were knocked aside in his excitement. ‘From the moment you pledged yourself to Martha your entire career has been exceptional. George, pay heed. That is no accident.’

‘Man have married before,’ George said, and thought of his compatriots fallen and alive. ‘Or, rather, they make compacts with one another to honour love and fidelity. My widow’s heir is my steward,’ he said, ‘my presence at Mount Vernon is very much unessential, as you yourself have proven to me time and again.’

‘Please,’ said Alexander, ‘allow me to try. If it fails to sway their hearts then I promise you will hear no more on the subject from me.’ He grabbed the desk again and set it to rights.

‘What will you do?’ George peered now at the paper on which Alexander was scratching out a plan. His hair fell like a thick, glossy curtain blocking him from view, and he formed a shield with his forearm to further prevent any detection.

With a sigh, George assented to the charge. Alexander smiled, kissed him upon his nose. And then he did what he had always done.

He wrote.

 

~*~

 

That night a letter was written to John, which, once received, was read carefully, and then burnt in the grate. The subject came to be broached with more haste than Alexander would have liked, but time was astonishingly of the essence. Come morning, John poured his wife’s tea and served her breakfast. He had arranged for his father to look after the children so they might have this conversation in private, as it was a matter of some delicacy and would require all his masculine wiles to pull off with success.

‘Angelica?’ he queried, once she was suitably awakened to hear him speak.

‘Hm?’ she said, absently, as she scanned the papers for mentions of her mother.

‘You know that General Washington is to be sent away anon?’

She folded the paper upon itself and stirred her cup counter-clockwise. ‘I have heard, John. Dreadful news, but not wholly unexpected.’

‘No, no,’ he interjected, ‘no of course not. Only, well.’ Here he paused until she peered over the top of the newspaper at him and waited for his discourse. ‘Only it will be such a blow for Alexander, to lose his husband again after all they have been through.’

Angelica snorted and rustled the broadsheet. ‘I dare say, John, he is not being sentenced to the gallows. He will have leave, and leisure in due time.’

‘Of course, of course. You are very correct, as always, my dear. But perhaps, and I hesitate to even mention it, but perhaps there might be a use for him here, too?’ Here John leaned in close to the table so that she might partake of his beguiling scent: rosemary, amber, and a hint of bergamot.

Angelica’s eyes widened at the intimation. ‘Whatever can you mean, John darling?’

John rested his chin in his hand and fluttered his eyelashes. ‘I do not mean gainful employment, for we all no such a thing would be ridiculous!’

‘Indeed—!’ admonished Angelica. ‘He has plenty enough to keep him occupied without meddling in women’s business. And that goes for Alexander as well, though good luck in getting him to listen!’

‘Merely — and I have heard you mention this in reference to your own father, if I am not mistaken, have you not — that men of a certain age and disposition should be permitted something useful to fill their days once their children have grown.’

‘Yes, yes,’ she nodded. ‘Charity, visiting the poor. That sort of thing.’ This last was delivered in a dismissive tone which revealed how Angelica herself felt about the lower orders of society. Necessary, absolutely vital for shining one’s shoes and polishing the silver, but a drain upon the treasury otherwise.

‘Well,’ he said, with a superfluous toss of the head that showed his long neck to best advantage, ‘only imagine how beneficial it would be for you to argue on behalf of that small right immediately. In session, I mean.’

‘What?’ she asked. ‘What, now?’ John nodded shyly. The eyelashes fluttered again, to no avail. ‘For whose benefit? General Washington’s?’

He took Angelica’s hand in his own and kissed each knuckle in turn. When he had finished with this gesture he looked her plain in the eye and said with a resolute steel in his voice, ‘why, for your own, my darling. Your mother—’

She caught his long-lashed eye and his meaning at once. ‘—would loathe it,’ she said, a smile tugging at her lips.

‘Absolutely,’ John said, and kissed her other hand in turn. ‘And what better reason could there be than to irk the unflappable Lady Catherine? You have long wanted to make a name for yourself in opposition.’

‘It seems a noble cause,’ she said, after a period of some deliberation. How she desired to earn her mother’s respect, and if the only avenue open for doing so involved political dealings, then perhaps it was destined to be the thing that marked her for distinction. And though the whole had been brought to her attention in a wholly subservient manner, it nonetheless bore the imprint of Alexander through and through. Sweet, silly John never would have devised such a scheme on his own.

When John began to wag his head in agreement she surprised him with her forthrightness. ‘What says Alexander?’ she asked, and nearly laughed at his stunned reaction.


	67. Chapter 67

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _An Eventual Alliance — Narrative and Resolution — The Eye of the Hurricane — One Final Surprise_

Thus in short order it came to pass that Alexander brought the plan (which had obviously his all along) before Angelica for her approval and subsequent assistance. They were rushed, for George’s summons was already in process. Shut up in her rooms he spoke for a long time, setting forth the evidence which was deemed necessary to convince her to act on George’s behalf. The bill she would propose would have to be general in nature, all the better to maintain the illusion that favoritism played no part, but its chief beneficiary would still be his husband.

By all accounts Angelica was a minor political personage, and nobody half suspected her to counterargue Lady Catherine on a single matter, however minor it might be. Cognizant that she would thus be highly scrutinized from all quarters, Angelica tracked Alexander’s every movement as he presented his case, offering only such suggestions as occurred to her in the moment of the telling. Once or twice she ventured to recommend a change in the particulars, but there was no denying in any circumstance either the ferocity of Alexander’s passion or the depths of his intellect.

It gave Angelica a queer feeling in her stomach to recognize these truths, intertwined and self-evident as they only now came to seem: that Alexander was in every manner her intellectual equal, and that merely the fact of his sex — notwithstanding the reduced circumstances arising from his lowly birth, and perhaps also his outspoken temperament — prohibited him from rising to the very highest offices in the land.

‘What say you?’ he asked, when he had proven his point many times over and shoved his hands in his pockets to stop their shaking.

Angelica pondered. To be sure, it would be a good thing to do for Alexander, to enact that which he could not. There was already much discussion to this end amongst the more liberal-minded women who frequented other clubs around St. James’. Privately, Angelica was increasingly likely to agree with their sentiments, for time had softened the truths that she had previously regarded as fundamental. But her mother would be sure to regard it as a personal affront were she to diverge with her party. It would drive a wedge between them that might never be healed.

She bit her lip. On the other hand, she thought, watching Alexander shift from foot to foot, if she was always cowed before her own mother, then what kind of example would she be to her daughter? And, for that matter, to her son? Angelica at times fretted that she lacked conviction, but let us pause to remember that it is not necessarily belief by itself that gets things done. It is hard graft, and labour, and the willingness to put in the work with little thought of compensation, glory, or renown. And work is best done in the company of friends.

‘Write it down for me,’ she said, at long last, ‘you will have to write it down for me if you wish me to remember it all.’  
Alexander’s face split into a grin. He rushed to embrace her with such ferocity that Angelica instinctively recoiled before allowing him his liberty.

‘Very well, then,’ she said, patting his back with an awkward palm, ‘I am grateful for your gratitude, Alexander, but nothing has been accomplished yet.’

‘It will be,’ Alexander said, and gripped her shoulders with such conviction that she had to laugh even though it shook her hair loose. ‘Oh, Angelica! We have so much work to do!’

 

~*~

 

While this conversation was taking place, George occupied himself with various matters about town: collecting his uniform from the tailor’s, a meeting with the doctor under whose care he had come to be himself again, a withdrawal from the bank.

He was late returning home and found Alexander stooped low over his desk, papers stacked around him, open books piled up on every surface. His love was so lost to work that he did not notice the door either opening or closing, as George wisely decided to locate his own sustenance and postprandial entertainments that evening.

Through the night Alexander wrote. Candles guttered low and the stars shone bright in the sky and still he laboured on, making words with which Angelica would contradict that supposition — utterly false, we can attest to this now, and admit at last to our own innate prejudices in matters of the sexes that has clouded our judgment for generations — which says that man is doomed by nature and Providence and all the rest to be a base creature held in the grips of his bodily passions, and so lacks reason, and intellect, and must be at all costs disbarred from the possibility of self-determination...

 

~*~

 

 _But what of Lady Catherine’s second husband?_   you will naturally enquire. _Did the writerly men of Alexander’s acquaintance ever come to be known publicly? Did Peggy succeed in her military endeavours and find a_ mentor féminin d'un certain âge _with whom to share her tent? And Eliza and John, did they have children together, and how many, and what became of them? What happened to Gilbert now that he was free to return to his homeland? And Alexander’s mother’s family, did they ever seek out their relation as was previously intimated, or did all that come to naught? Was his father really dead all along, or merely gone missing from good society?_

As to our personages major and minor whose circumstances have gone unaddressed, for this we must apologize, gentle Reader. There is much that must remain unsaid and sadly it must be so. A book cannot bear the weight of life, nor its complexity. We must, like the tide, draw a line in the sand beyond which we cannot pass. Decisions must be made, important events omitted in the name of brevity, and our tale is overlong already. But closure matters very much within the confines of this thing we call narrative, and thus it is only just for you who have sat with us for so long to learn what will become of our principals.

Too many stories are those of great women: our queens and military commanders. Scientists and doctors form society’s backbone and ensure that our world reproduces itself with as little fuss as possible. We will not leave off merchants, philanthropists, inventors, engineers, and tradeswomen without whom the nation would scarce be able to prosper. The dons and headmistresses, lecturers and governesses all do their part as well. All to make possible a society in which a few good women from the best houses may stand in front of their peers and rally support to argument the same way Queen Harry did to lead her armies into battle.

Men speak in secret — over embroidery and delicately sugared cups of tea — and so while there is the one way to make change, the way Alexander had done, with words printed on the page, so there are others still. An offhand comment made by a husband to his wife, nurtured and tended over a decade or more, until in the sphere of their private acquaintance, he might operate in a manner very akin to freedom. She would find his counsel untutored and refreshing in its simplicity. This would be the future of John Church Schuyler, who was the most gracious helpmeet Angelica could have asked for; a benevolent father, an asset in her political campaigns, and, after many long years of marriage, a friend.

As for what befell Angelica herself, we will leave the reader with the satisfaction of knowing that the lasting peace following the French trials did indeed come to pass. During such times it befits the nation to turn its attention to domestic matters, such as drainage, and trade agreements, and agriculture, and hospitals. In times of peace women are more permissive, and so it happened that a certain bright young minister found herself becoming an evermore outspoken advocate for the unalienable rights of men — yes, men! — all within the bounds of reason, and adhering to the strictest constraints of common sense — and years later, she might eventually find herself put forth for high office, and succeed both to and at it. Her mother, Lady Catherine, was as displeased with the outcome as she was proud of her daughter.

George’s destiny was inextricably bound up with Alexander’s, which is entirely as it should be. He went away for a while, according to the military law which governed him, and when a different civil law was enacted in its place, he came home again. Mount Vernon was the surest backdrop which his own health and well-being required, and became a fixed point from where he could oversee improvements to the military’s supply lines. Full retirement would have suited him poorly, but with just enough activity to keep his mind occupied he found himself full of vigour once more. The fresh bloom of youth had long since fallen from his dark cheek, and his back disagreed with any mattress that was too soft, but he rode his horse twice a day, and read Pliny in the mornings and shot grouse in the afternoons, and spent happy nights in the warmth of Alexander’s bed.

And as for him, our main personage, sweet Alexander — who in the course of this telling has grown up, from boy to man; — who has known love and longing; — brilliant and painfully stupid in turn; — whose words have blazed a trail the effects of which we are only now beginning to see put into effect; — for him we reserve a future that is both exceptional and entirely, dully ordinary. His life, by all accounts, was unusual — for he had married a man, a widow and soldier to boot, and through the sheer determination of will had made himself a figure of some secret importance. But he relished quiet mornings, and breadmaking, and reading novels with a fire in the grate and his head in George’s lap. Contradictory to all incendiary argument, ordinary is a perfectly good thing to be, for it is ever so tiresome to be superior all the time. And more to the point, ordinary men deserve our admiration and respect just as much as the extraordinary ones.

 

~*~

 

Thus we conclude as we began, dear Reader: we end with a hurricane.

Parliament convened on a chilly Tuesday. Angelica held a sheaf of papers on her lap and steeled herself for the fight that lay ahead. When the session opened, she was third on the docket to speak. She listened to a bill about the price of corn and another about pensions, then walked to the podium. Mrs. Adams, her mother’s greatest political opponent for many years now, gave her a small smile. Angelica swallowed. She began to speak.

‘It is one of the excellencies of a free government such as our own that we may exercise the rights endowed to us by our Creator. And in keeping with that same spirit, it seems incontestible to us that the common happiness requires that these are limited to the superior sex. In other words, so long as men do not aspire to exercise rights and political functions, then the social order will continue to the benefit of the few rather than the many.’

There was a gasp from Lady Catherine, who looked whiter (and angrier!) than Angelica had ever seen her. She very nearly lost her nerve, but she then caught Mrs. Madison’s eye, and Mrs. Adams nodded fervently in her direction. There comes a period in a woman’s life when she stands before a roomful of her peers and it occurs to her that her life is perfectly situated between the midpoint of her girlhood and the stooped years of her old age, and that much as she may admire her own mother, and strive to please her in every capacity, there comes a time when she must put herself first.

Angelica continued, even though her voice shook. ‘We live in an age of splendid pretense where the many silently endure injuries perpetrated by the few. My main argument for the law I come to propose rests upon a simple principle, which is that at present the misery of menfolk is largely invisible because it cannot be named, and if a thing has no name, then it may as well not exist. I hope today to offer a corrective to the course we have steered, which will begin to mitigate the arrogance and pride which has for too long supposed, according to wholly specious reasoning, against science, and against common sense itself, that men are separated from human excellence by virtue of their sex.’

She could have spoke for six hours, so much could she have said. Marriage had indeed changed her as it does us all. And while she had borne a girl as well, Angelica was mother to a boy. For that is what all men are, are they not? Someone’s son, someone’s brother. At the end of the day, even if that is all they are allowed to be, it is better to be a brother or a son than nothing at all. And while there are great warriors and even a few poets or two among them, men have yet not been able to stand up and be counted as citizens among us, so it would hardly reason that they could politick like a woman.

(An astute observer might note that here we are speaking of the difference between politics and diplomacy. Alexander was brilliant, fierce and bright as the West Indian sun at high noon, but the sun makes a poor diplomat. It takes up too much space in chambers and burns up all the whiskey.)

When she spoke she thought of John, who wanted for so little and who loved her so much, and for her own son’s future. Her father, and her father’s father, and her father’s father’s father who had been, by all accounts, good men to the last, who wanted for nothing and yet could have done so much more had they only been permitted to do so.

Had Angelica’s father Philip been present, his pride would have been immense in his eldest daughter. He would have seen the spark in her of the fierce young woman Lady Catherine had been when he was first promised to her, and remembered his own youth. Very likely he would have cried and blown his nose loudly at an inopportune moment.

Had her husband been able to watch her from the strangers’ gallery, he would have gazed on her adoringly, and applauded as loudly as he could even if her voice wavered. That is what good husbands do, and it is the foundation of a solid marriage, that he be her most vocal supporter in whatever she pursues.

Had Alexander been there, he would have been in a state both glad and sad to watch her speak. Glad, because her words would have been his, for it was his writings that had made their way into her bedside table, and these which had given her pause, too. When she began to notice how John kept his opinions to himself even when she asked, or her daughter spoke loudly over her son. Once it had come to her attention, she saw small injustices everywhere she looked.

That day in Parliament was the first handhold on a mountainous climb, but it was only a beginning. The true work still lay ahead. Nevertheless, Angelica’s speech belonged to Alexander as much as herself, though she received the sole credit for it in Hansard, and the newspapers, and the lesson rooms, and later on, in the textbooks. It belonged to John, as well, for without her marriage to that steadfast gentleman never would she have thought to defy the teachings of her mother and grandmother and the generations before her and think, with her own quick mind, that if men were afforded an education on par with that bestowed on women, perhaps they might be permitted freedoms in kind.

Petitions were started in response to that first bill, which was very grandiose in its language but meager in its demands. It called merely for a reworking of military law so that men of a certain age could re-enter civil society and locate their families, should they wish it. More women spoke out along similar lines, emboldened by that first step. Men’s signatures were gathered from afternoons spent in tea shops, and visits to book sellers, and great parties held at the estates of Mount Vernon and River Grove, too. Passed around sewing circles, secreted behind the pages of a Bible to keep their true purpose concealed from watchful guardians. This, in turn, begat future bills, with their own counter-arguments, and vigourous debate, and mud-slinging. Slowly, with the support of these quiet men, and a few loud ones, the women built a coalition.

 

~*~

 

While Angelica was speaking, Alexander and George were biding their time in a nearby teahouse. They were barred from the stranger’s gallery, where men were permitted but once a year, and openly dissuaded from waiting in the anterooms. Alexander fidgeted and played with his hair. George ate a bun and watched carriages pass in front of the window. When the bell sounded five they both, as if in some silent, unspoken agreement, made for the door in tandem.

And here, Reader, is where we will leave them: the future still ahead of them, the past not yet chasing at their heels. Hand in hand they walked from the tearoom to their apartments. Neither one had much appetite for supper, but Alexander supposed he should fix something. George would step out later for the evening editions of the papers. Angelica might come to call, if she could escape her mother’s anger. Tomorrow would look much the same. The work would continue. As they ascended the stairs to their flat Alexander’s nostrils flared. A peculiar smell, familiar, seeped from beneath the doorway. Cinnamon? No, tobacco smoke!

The door, when they reached it, was unlocked. More accurately it had been forced, but with minimal damage to the apparatus. And there, just inside, a familiar face!

Adrienne’s hair was as disheveled as ever, and her dress, pale purple edged with rich brown, was askew at the collar. Her breasts fairly spilled over the top of it, even without any corsetry beneath to prop them up.

Alexander, who had never even once in his life given any consideration to the state of a woman’s _décolleté,_ noticed nothing immediately amiss. He was merely quivering with excitement, although in passing he did find it odd how much brighter Adrienne’s complexion seemed, radiant as the moon when she is full. He attributed it to her own inner brilliance, nothing more, and as he persisted in retaining this fanciful notion even after it had long been dispelled, we will leave him to it.

George, who considered Adrienne the closest thing he would ever have to a daughter, having been married to her mother all those years ago, was likewise disinclined to examine her figure with anything approximating scrutiny. Politely he averted his eyes, while his mind digested the information that she was dressed more like a woman than he had ever seen since her childhood.

With that, Adrienne stood up from behind the table. The swell of her belly was so pronounced that only a blind woman could have missed it. It was as if she had stuffed a cushion beneath her waistband.

Why had she returned? What meant she to do? Who would care for the child? The solution is usually, in the end, the simplest one. It is why we find family where it lies, and how it is found. It is, in the end, love.

She clicked her teeth at Alexander, as if to draw his attention to the state of things as they now stood. George was standing stock-still but his mind, alert as any soldier’s, was racing to and fro seeking an explanation. Alexander was staring at her belly, and then at her grin, and then back and forth between the two. He looked to George, but that man was rendered equally useless in the face of this new, altogether shocking information.

Adrienne beamed, happy that she had rendered even talkative Alexander speechless for once. She stubbed out her cigarette on the table and brushed away the ash that had landed on her dress, and then said, _‘Alors messieurs, qu'est-ce que vous devenez?’_

 

 

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> At long last! This has been quite a journey. Thank you everyone for your support: your comments, your messages, your reblogs, your recs. I have never written anything this long (or for this long!) before, and could not have done it alone. I appreciate your sticking with me as this grew from 'fun idea that could be finished in a few weeks' to 'epic book-length thing that took me eleven months to write.' 
> 
> Big props go especially to the group chat for keeping me on task, with writing sprints, adorable gifs, and the promise of porn. Special thanks is owed to [ triedunture](https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture) who has been there from day one with sharp eyes, a keen sense of humour, and unwavering support. 
> 
> Comments and questions greatly appreciated. You can reach me here or [on tumblr.](https://pitcherplant.tumblr.com) FYI that I may end up doing something quasi-legit with this in the future, so please do download if you want an archived copy.


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